


Atonement

by MsBarrows



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Awakening, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post Game, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 114,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loghain Mac Tir, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, follows up on a promise he made to the Hero of Ferelden before her death, and seeks out Alistair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Promise

He felt numb, watching the flames rising, licking around the slender figure. She looked so small, so insignificant, and yet she had been a giant; brave, resourceful, kind-hearted... merciful when she could be, resolute when she had to be. He had been proud to follow her, in the end. And angry, when she would not let him take the final blow against the Archdemon himself, but claimed it for her own instead. And died, in the killing of the beast.

There were things he had to do now; responsibilities that had become his, with her death. He was the only surviving Grey Warden in Ferelden, and that meant taking on the rank of Commander of the Grey, or seeing it pass to some foreigner. Coming as it now did with the additional title of Arl of Amaranthine, that was not something he was willing to see occur. And there was one other responsibility he needed to deal with; a promise she'd extracted from him before her death. He might have undertaken it anyway, even without her words, but with them... with them, he was committed.

He stayed by the pyre all night, watching the flames rise and roar, fed on oil-soaked wood, and then gradually ebb away, leaving nothing but smoking ashes and a few charred bones by the time the sun began to rise. Only then did he give her his final salute, arms crossed on chest and bowing deeply, before finally turning away.

The next few days were filled with meetings; meetings with the Queen, a hearing before the Landsmeet, a meeting with Teyrn Fergus. Fergus would be his liege lord from now on, at least in theory, though in practise he would mostly report directly to the Crown as Warden-Commander; only in matters related to the governance of the arling itself would he owe any acknowledgement to the teyrn.

Finally it was all sorted out, though it had taken long enough that he'd received word that the Orlesian wardens had arrived ahead of him at Vigil's Keep and already settled themselves in there. He didn't like that; he'd have preferred to have been there to welcome them, at least as much welcome as he was willing to give towards foreign interlopers. He'd have turned them away if he could, but lacking the knowledge of how to create wardens himself, it had been made clear to him that he had no choice but to accept them for now. It would likely be years until he had sufficient well-trained wardens to send the Orlesians packing.

The Maker clearly had an interesting sense of humour, he found himself thinking as he set off along the north road with Mhairi, a warden-applicant who had been sent to accompany him to the Keep. Rather insulting, that; as if he couldn't be trusted to find his own way from Denerim to the Vigil without the help of a raw recruit. Still, it gave him someone to talk to during the long walk, and she proved to be full of potentially useful information about the Orlesians, having spent some time with them before being sent south to meet him.

It was only after they reached the keep that Loghain learned just how _interesting_ the Maker's sense of humour was. It ended up being several very busy months later before he was finally able to give any attention to the promise the warden had extracted from him, and by then, the bastard's trail was long cold. Assuming the fool had even survived the end of the Blight War, of which there was no guarantee. Still, he needed to be found, and Loghain was willing to spend rather freely to have him looked for.

In the meantime, he had plenty to do to keep himself occupied, between having both an arling and an order of Grey Wardens to rebuild.


	2. To Kirkwall

Loghain stood at the window of his office, watching the cold spring rain drizzling down outside. "You're sure it's him?" he asked sharply, looking over his shoulder at the merchant, just one of his many contacts.

"As sure as I can be, ser. He's not even changed his name; still calling himself Alistair. And boasted once, in his cups, about being bastard royalty. Has the look of the old king, as well, except the eyes."

Loghain grunted. Two years without any least sign of the bastard; he'd begun to believe that Alistair must have been among the unnamed dead in Denerim. So many had died to the darkspawn that there'd been no way – and no time – to attempt identifying them all. The pyres had burned day and night for weeks afterwards, and even then most of the dead had needed to be buried in a massive charnal pit outside the walls rather than cleanly burned, all ready supplies of oil and wood – even most of the wood from the many destroyed buildings – having been consumed for the purpose.

He sighed. "I thank you for bringing me word so directly. You normally sail west from Kirkwall, not south, if I am remembering correctly?"

"Yes, ser."

"There will extra gold in your purse to make up for your inconvenience then. Please feel free to stay in the Keep as long as you need to before resuming your travels; with this beastly weather I'm sure you'd prefer to wait until the roads have dried out again."

"Thank you, yes," the merchant said, bowing deeply before leaving the room.

Not that the spring rains would hold Loghain here; he preferred to head to Kirkwall immediately to retrieve the bastard, before he moved on again. He sent for Varel – arrangements would need to be made for while he was away, so he wouldn't come back to the same sort of disaster he'd found last time he'd had to leave his seat for a while – and then sat down at his desk, drawing a sheet of paper close and beginning to make a list of who and what he'd need to take along with him. And he'd need to write a few letters, as well, to keep up the proper courtesies and let Queen Anora and Teyrn Fergus know he was going abroad briefly, and why.

* * *

He'd never particularly enjoyed travel by sea; good solid land was what he preferred, and there was little of Ferelden that he hadn't walked or rode over at one point in time or another, in his long years of service to the Crown. But he'd never much cared for ships, even as the Teyrn of a port city, and especially not since King Maric had been lost at sea. Accordingly, he was in a sour mood by the time, a week later, that his ship put in to the harbour at Kirkwall.

By necessity his first stop in the city had to be up in Hightown; a courtesy visit to the offices of the Viscount. It was a long walk, made rather easier by the fact that he wore plain clothing rather than his armour for the day, not wishing to be easily recognized as a Grey Warden. Partway up the long stairs from Lowtown to Hightown his escort suggested he and the pair of men he'd brought along – also plainly dressed – might want to rest for a moment.

"I am not tired," he informed the man. "Believe me when I say that to someone who spends much of their time in the Deep Roads, this staircase is hardly enough of a climb to work up a decent sweat over," he said, and kept walking, his pair of wardens and the guide of necessity following along behind them. He was unduly pleased when they reached the top to see the guide was breathing deeply while his own men looked as fresh as when they'd left the ship. He refrained, however, from pointing this out, and instead stepped to one side, where he could look out over the lower reaches of the city, allowing the guide time to catch his breath.

He didn't think much of the city; much of it a dense warren of buildings, packed with the lower class workers and the poor, an unfortuante number of them refugees from Ferelden. Kirkwall was the only place he'd ever heard of where there were those even the alienage elves could look down upon; the even more desperate poor inhabiting Darktown, their only home a claim on some patch of tunnel floor deep beneath the city. An unpleasant place even before the chantry had effectively taken control of it, some years prior to the Blight War. Small wonder the previous Viscount had wished the templars gone; a desire he could agree with, given Ferelden's own experience of the chantry.

He turned away from the view after a few minutes, and gestured for their guide to lead on. Not that he actually needed a guide; he'd been here twice before, once as part of a diplomatic mission, and then again years later when searching for any sign that King Maric, or even any of the crew of his ship, had survived the storm in which his ship was presumed to have sunk. But it never hurt to let people think you were less knowledgeable than you actually were, so he merely followed quietly.

He had only a brief wait in the anti-chamber to Viscount Dumar's office before he was shown into the man's presence. The seneschal hovered nearby after introducing him, but there being no need for any real privacy in their talk, he chose to ignore the intrusion.

"Viscount Dumar," he said, and gave him a properly deep bow of greeting, arms crossed in salute.

"Warden-Commander Loghain. I'm surprised to see you here in my city," Dumar said, rising to his own feet and nodding his head in greeting. "May one ask what brings you here?"

Loghain grimaced. "Minor Grey Warden business; nothing to do with darkspawn or blight," he hastened to assure the man. "But as I'm here, however briefly, I felt a courtesy call was necessary. I'm here in search of a deserter from the wardens, if he hasn't already departed the city since being spotted here a few weeks ago. I hope to only be here long enough to retrieve him, and then depart on the morning tide. Though if he's already moved on, my stay will of necessity have to be longer, while I try to track down where he might have gone from here."

Dumar's eyebrows rose slightly, as did his Seneschal's. "You pursue a common deserter yourself?" the Seneschal asked.

Loghain glanced at him, and decided he was likely asking on his master's behalf, not solely out of his own curiosity. "Yes. He is, unfortunately, no common deserter. I'm sure even here you must have heard of Maric's bastard and his appearance at the Landsmeet where my daughter was confirmed as Queen by the Hero of Ferelden?"

"Yes, we have," Dumar agreed. "And you believe this man is here in Kirkwall?"

"Yes. I've been seeking him ever since the end of the Blight War, and he was spotted here a few weeks ago by a merchant of my acquaintance."

Dumar frowned. "You're not seeking him in order to, err... see to it that he is no threat to Queen Anora's rule, I hope?"

"No," Loghain said. "Though it's certainly better to have him back in the ranks of the Grey Wardens where he belongs rather than rattling around Thedas, and possibly becoming the focus of any discontent with Queen Anora's rule, though so far there seems to be blessedly little of that. I merely wish to take him back to where he belongs."

Dumar nodded. "All right. Thank you for notifying me of your intentions here. Bran, take him to see the Guard-Captain; she can accompany the Commander and make it clear that he's not kidnapping some random refugee."

"Of course," the Seneschal said, bowed obediently to the man, and led the way out of the office after Loghain and Dumar had exchanged civil farewells.

The Guard-Captain's office was not very far away, just the other side of the entrance hall from where the Viscount's offices were, and down a set of stairs. There was someone in with the Captain already, a guardsman told them, and they had to stand and wait for some time, the Seneschal looking mildly irked at having to wait.

The door of the office finally opened, the first out of it a white-haired elf in tight-fitting leathers with a large sword in a hanger on his back. He'd be rather tall for an elf, if it wasn't for his hunched posture, Loghain judged. The second person, a woman with orange-red hair and freckles and dressed in guard armour must be the Captain, he decided; it surely wasn't the elf.

"...it's only been three months. I'm sure they'll be back soon," she was saying to the elf.

The elf sighed and nodded, looking glum, and glanced incuriously at them before turning his attention back to the woman. "I hope you're right," the elf said, nodded to her, and left, head bowed and his bare feet almost silent on the stone steps.

The woman turned and looked curiously at the group of them, her expression hardening for a moment as she looked at Loghain. "Seneschal Bran, you wish to see me?" she asked, turning to look questioningly at him.

"Guard-Captain Aveline, the Viscount asked me to introduce Warden-Commander Loghain to you, and bids you assist the Commander with the arrest and removal of a deserter believed to be here in Kirkwall," he explained.

Aveline nodded, and turned to look at Loghain. "Why don't we take this into my office," she suggested, then turned to the Seneschal. "Seneschal," she said, dipping her head to him in clear farewell.

"Guard-Captain," he said, gave her an equally minimal nod of the head – clearly there was no love lost between the two, Loghain found himself thinking, before the man turned to him as well. "Warden-Commander. If you need any further assistance from the Viscount's office, do let me know," he said, and gave Loghain a considerably deeper bow.

"Thank you," Loghain said, bowing slightly to the man. "Wait for me here," he told his men, then followed the Guard-Captain into her office,.

She had a large and pleasant office, one wall lined with well-filled bookshelves and another with narrow windows that flooded it with a pleasant amount of sunlight. A large wooden desk stood to one side, admirably free of visible paperwork, with a comfortable-looking chair behind it, large enough to allow someone in full armour to sit. She walked around the desk, and gestured to a like pair of chairs facing it. "Please, be seated," she said, and lowered herself into the chair with the casual grace of one well-used to moving and sitting in armour.

He took a seat as well, studying her face as he did so. She seemed vaguely familiar, though he wasn't entirely sure from just where, not until she turned to one side to remove pen and paper from a desk drawer, her lips thinning, and he saw her profile. "You were at Ostagar," he said, surprised. "In King Cailan's service."

She turned and looked at him, jaw setting and expression distinctly cool. "Yes, I was. And almost died there." The accusing look in her eyes made it clear where she felt the blame for _that_ lay. "But that's not what we're here about, is it. Your deserter," she said, dipping her pen and looking questioningly at him.

"Yes. My deserter. According to my sources he was spotted living here in Kirkwall some weeks ago, at a place in Lowtown called the Hanged Man. Apparently he spends his nights drinking himself into a stupor and his days sleeping it off to do all over again, so I have hopes that he has not yet moved on."

"I'm familiar with the place," she said guardedly. "What does he look like?"

"As of the last time I saw him he was big, broad-shouldered... a warrior. Short-cropped dark blond hair, brown eyes, named Alistair if he hasn't bothered to assume some other name yet..."

"I believe I know the man you're speaking of," she interrupted, frowning slightly. "Sometimes claims to be King Maric's bastard. Is he?"

Loghain gave her a look. "You knew Cailan; you tell me."

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "It's certainly possible; he does have the look of the Theirin's about him, apart from the eyes. He is, then?"

"As far as I know, yes. And before you ask, I don't intend the boy any harm. Rather the opposite, if anything, since the first step after I retrieve him will have to be drying him out," he added with a grimace.

"Why do you care so much about a deserter, other than him being Maric's son?" she asked curiously, leaning back in her chair.

"Isn't that reason enough?"

She merely looked at him, one eyebrow lifting minimally. Clearly it wasn't enough for her.

He shrugged; no reason to keep it entirely secret. "A promise I made, to the Hero of Ferelden before her death; to seek Alistair out and see him was properly looked after. She loved him."

The woman's eyebrows rose in surprise. "And she trusted _you_ to look after him? After _Ostagar?_ " More than a touch of disbelief in her voice.

"It was no choice of mine that Cailan died at Ostagar," he said, voice hard. "Though everyone believes it was some personal treachery of mine that caused his death. I had a choice to make; a fool-hardy attempt to rescue the king after the battle was already clearly lost, or to preserve the soldiers under my command. It's a choice I never wanted to make, and one I've relived in nightmares ever since. If I could turn back time... I cannot say that I would make the same choice. But if I could turn back time, I'd hope to use it to better effect and keep Cailan _off_ that killing field. But the past is not something I can change. Alistair's future is something I can. And I _will_ fulfil my promise to Solona, with or without your assistance in retrieving my wandering warden."

She studied his face for a long moment, then gave a short nod. "All right. I'd suggest taking him after he's retired for the night already; less fuss likely that way."

Loghain nodded. "So I'd planned. One of the men I've brought along is a mage; he will see to it the boy remains asleep until we're well out to sea."

Aveline's lips thinned for a moment. "Not giving him much choice, are you. No, never mind, I know you're within your rights," she said. "All right. When should I meet you this evening, and where? Outside the Hanged Man?"

"At my ship might be better; I plan to return there once I'm done here. I'm hoping to avoid word of Grey Warden presence reaching our subject and scaring him off. Hence why I and my people are not in uniform, though we'll be in full armour tonight. Not that it's likely to be needed, but as with your presence, the more official we look, the less chance someone will mistake us for common kidnappers."

"Or slavers, which are sadly still all-too-common here," Aveline agreed grimly. "All right. At your ship. When?"

"Shortly before midnight, I think; he's likely to have drunk himself into oblivion by then."

She nodded agreement, then scribbled on the sheet of paper before her for a few minutes, pressed a sheet of blotting paper over it, then folded it and rose to her feet, holding it out. "An arrest warrant for your deserter, to make it all official," she said.

"Thank you," he said, rising as well and accepting it. "Tonight then."

She saw him to the door, giving him a rather chilly bow before returning to her own work. Loghain rounded up his men and left, headed back down to the docks, their guide rejoining them as they exited the building.


	3. Retrieval

The Guard-Captain was punctual, appearing at dockside by their ship shortly before midnight as promised. She had a small group of guards with her; her response when Loghain questioned their presence was grim. "Even guards aren't safe at night in this city. A problem I've been working on for some time, but doubt I'll solve any time soon."

He nodded his head; most cities were dangerous after dark, and as overcrowded as this one was, likely they had even more problems with crime than was usual elsewhere. And as he himself was bringing along four wardens, he could hardly claim to have been planning to be any less wary.

Aveline fell in at his side, leading the way to the Hanged Man, their people falling in behind them. Even with as large a group as they made, he could not help but be aware that they were being watched by unfriendly eyes. There were no people obviously about, save a few clusters of sailors and the like, even they keeping together for safety, but he caught glimpses of movements in the shadows of alleys and on rooftops, enough to feel certain that walking in any number less than a well-armed group in these surroundings was likely hazardous.

It was passing midnight by the time they reached the tavern. The street in front of it was marginally better-lit, the cool night air clearly carrying the sounds of a crowded bar. A crowd that fell silent when the group of them entered.

"Here now, we don't want no trouble..." the bartender said uneasily.

"Then there shouldn't be any, Corff," Aveline said firmly. "We're just here to arrest a man," she said, and glanced around the room. "Not any of you," she added pointedly, then stepped closer to the bar, leaning over it to talk quietly to the man as conversations in the room slowly resumed, the patrons eyeing the guards and wardens warily. The man looked stubborn at first, then sighed and shook his head, leaning closer and saying something to the Guard-Captain before turning away to resume serving his patrons. She returned to Loghain's side. "Upstairs, end of the hall."

Loghain nodded, and allowed her to lead the way again; this was her jurisdiction, after all, even if it was his warden they were here after.

He could feel him even before they reached the room; the familiar faint over there tug on his senses that told him of the nearness of another warden. In truth he'd known the man was still here long before they'd reached the building; he'd sensed him from some distance away, though only as he drew close did the feeling really solidify.

The door to the room was not even locked. Aveline signed for her guards to remain out in the hallway, then she, Loghain and his wardens entered as silently as they could. Loghain felt relieved to see that it was indeed Alistair lying on a cot in one corner of the room; there had always been some small chance that it was not him; some other man of similar looks and name, even some other warden. By the look of it they could have rode in on horses with a pack of barking mabari and not woken him; he was sprawled unconscious on one side. The room stank of stale beer, even staler sweat, vomit, and unemptied chamberpot; judging by the state of the floor beside the cot, Alistair had thrown up most of an evening's worth of heavy drink and too little food before passing out.

"Jowan," he said quietly, nodding to the bed.

The mage made a face, and carefully picked his way across the clothing-strewn floor to the cot, then leaned down, grimacing as he touched his fingers lightly to Alistair's temple. He stood like that only a moment, a haze of magic lighting his hand, then rose. "It is done. He will sleep at least half a day."

Loghain nodded. "Cale, Edrick, take care of him," he said, then glanced around the small room and grimaced. "Oghren, Jowan, gather up his things. I suppose we'll have a hard enough time with him without him mourning some precious possession we've left behind."

Oghren nodded and he and the mage started gathering up the clothing and other belongings scattered about the room, stuffing them into a near-empty pack-sack abandoned in one corner of the room. Cale, in the meantime, opened a bag slung over one shoulder and hauled out what looked like a canvas hammock, with an extra-large loop of thick rope at either end of it; a sling, of the kind the wardens had long found useful for transporting injured and carrying large amounts of supplies in the Deep Roads when necessary. He and Edric kicked clear an area of floor near the cot, avoiding the puddle of vomit, then spread out the sling. The two of them – both very large, strong men – then easily lifted Alistair off his cot, and in a short time had him bundled up in the sling, only his head sticking out an opening at one end so they could keep an eye on his condition while carrying him. They each crouched down, slipped a loop of rope over their head and one arm, then rose to their feet, easily lifting the sling and carrying Alistair out to the hallway, where they set him down again and waited for Loghain and the others to be done.

Loghain walked around the room, checking for anything that Oghren and Jowan might have missed; the two were efficient, apart from a cracked medallion of Andraste half-buried in a pile of dust and shed hairs in one corner, he found nothing of note that they'd missed. At least until he thought to bend down and glance under the bed. A half-covered chamberpot, source of a good deal of the foul odour in the room and... something else, further back in the shadows. "There's something under the bed," he pointed out.

Oghren grimaced and muttered an oath, then walked over and crouched down, looking under and then reaching back, hauling it into view. A shield, with a stained canvas covering. Loghain glanced around, frowning. "A shield, but no sword?"

Aveline spoke up, her first words since they'd entered the room. "Some mercenaries sell them in between jobs; they'd rather have the money for drinking and whores. And then buy a new blade – or at least a half-decent used one – out of their advance money when they get a new job."

"That sounds a dangerous thing to do, in this city."

"I never said it was the smart mercenaries that did such."

"No, you didn't, did you," he agreed, amused, and took a final look around. What a sty, for Maric's bastard to have ended up in. A thought he kept to himself. "All right. Back to the ship."

His wardens nodded, Oghren hefting the now over-stuffed pack onto his back and Jowan taking the shield to carry, Cale and Edrick lifting their burden. Their passage through the bar occasioned another silence and some side-long looks at their prisoner, but nothing else. The walk back to the ship was an uneventful as the walk to the bar had been.

"Thank you for your assistance," he told Guard-Captain Aveline once they reached the ship.

"Just doing my duty. You plan to sail in the morning?"

Loghain nodded. "Yes, just as soon as the sun's up. I want to be well out to sea before Alistair wakes."

"I'll say farewell now then," she said, gave him a polite bow, gathered her men, and walked off again, not looking back.

He followed his own men on board ship, where Cale and Edrick waited patiently, crouched down to rest Alistair's weight on the deck. Loghain walked over and looked down at him. Unshaven, hair grown out and greasy, where it wasn't matted with vomit, and stinking. He sighed. "Do what you can to clean him up without waking him, then put him in the small cabin," he instructed, then looked at Oghren. "I'm putting him in your care for the trip back to the Keep; see if you can start drying him out. Jowan, give Oghren any aid you can."

"Yes, ser," Oghren said, Jowan nodding silent agreement, then the two turned and followed off after Cale and Edrick, who'd already carried Alistair over near the railing and were busy stripping him out of his fouled clothing. Loghain turned away, leaving them to the unpleasant task of dealing with the boy. He was glad to have found the missing man at last, satisfying at least the beginnings of his promise to Solona, but it was likely going to be a very long and tiring time before he'd satisfied all of it.


	4. Awakening

The first thing Alistair noticed on waking was the headache and the dizziness, both of which were normal. The second thing was that the dizziness was far worse than usual, as if the whole room was rocking back and forth. And then he realized that it _was_ rocking back and forth, and that he was surrounded by the sounds and smells of a ship at sea; creaking timbers, the slap of waves against the hull, salt-water and bilges. He sat up quickly, then moaned and fell back, feeling as if he was going to lose the contents of his stomach.

A ship. What was he doing on a ship!? Mind you, it wouldn't be the first time he'd woken somewhere with no memory of how he'd gotten there, but he was reasonably certain that his last memory of the night before was of stumbling upstairs to bed, not of ordering another drink. Had he woken and returned to the bar? Or had he lost a few days again, with what he thought was last night having actually been several days ago?

Alistair sat up again, much more cautiously, swallowing as his stomach rolled again. Moving slowly, he turned and lowered his feet to the floor. He was, he noticed, dressed only in a loose nightshirt – too large and clean to be one of his own – and his smalls. He peered blearily around the small cabin he was in; a single small room, barely longer than the bed, with a closed door to his right, and the outward-curving shape of what must be the hull of the ship to his left. The bed he'd woken in was inset along one wall, the areas above and below it being filled in with cupboards and drawers. The opposite wall was blank apart from a narrow bench, little more than a wide shelf of wood, and a lit candle-lantern hanging from a curved brace that held it far enough out from the wall what even the roughest weather was unlikely to break it.

He leaned over far enough to pull out and check the drawers under one end of the bed – both empty – and slide open the cupboard under the other end. It proved to be empty apart from a lidded chamberpot standing in some sort of bracket which he supposed served to prevent it moving around in rough seas. He took it out and put it to the use it was intended for, sighing in relief as his overly full bladder emptied.

He'd travelled by ship often enough before to know that he should take the chamberpot up and dump it over the rail when he was done, unless it was the middle of the night. He had no idea what time of day it was, really, but guessed it most likely to be daytime; the ship felt like it was moving at a decent clip, which it wouldn't do at night, and he could hear distant sounds of people moving around and talking.

After double-checking that the lid was on tight – there were few faster ways to annoy sailors than to foul the deck of their ship – he made his way to the door, relieved to find it unlocked. He leaned out into the passageway, looking both directions, before stepping out into it. There were stairs and sunlight visible off to his left, so he went that way, having to move slowly and keep one hand against the wall to steady himself. He stopped partway up the stairs, once he's climbed high enough to see above the deck.

It was a beautiful day, the sky blue apart from a few distant puffs of white and some mare's tails high overhead, a steady wind blowing. He squinted from the bright sunlight, headache worsening, and looked around. There was a small cluster of men, all sailors by the look of them, near the back of the ship – the aft end, he reminded himself – a couple up in the rigging, and a pair of more finely-dressed men up at the bow of the ship. He emerged the rest of the way from below, peering back and shading his eyes, and could just make out a dark line along the horizon, with a paler stretch broken by a narrow dark line near the middle. The high cliffs of Kirkwall, at a guess, assuming that was the northern horizon, and he'd have had to lose quite a few days for it be some other direction. Judging by their position astern, the ship was travelling to the south or southeast, toward Ferelden.

Staring at the horizon as the ship rolled with the waves proved to be an unwise decision; he staggered over to the rail, bending over it just in time to lose what little was left in his stomach, and almost dropping the chamberpot in his haste. He hung over the railing, retching repeatedly until there was nothing left to bring up.

"Hah! Leave you alone for a few minutes so I can go grab something to eat, and you up and run off on me," a voice exclaimed from nearby. A shockingly familiar voice.

"Oghren!?" he said, managing to turn around to look. It was indeed the dwarf, who he hadn't seen since walking out of the Landsmeet two years before. Oghren looked much the same as ever, apart from being out of armour; but then, only a fool wore armour on board a ship at sea.

"Here, give me that," the dwarf said, reaching out and plucking the chamberpot from his grasp. Alistair stared in disbelief, still finding it hard to believe Oghren was really there, while the dwarf quickly poured it out over the side, then picked up a nearby coil of rope, tied one end to the handle of the chamberpot, and rinsed it by the simple expedient of lowering it over the side and dunking it once ofrtwice before hauling it back up and dumping out the sea water it had filled with.

"What are you doing here?" Alistair asked, puzzled, then frowned as he finally noticed something else, a pulling on a sense he'd almost forgotten he had, it had been so long since anything had last triggered it. "Maker's breath... you're a _Grey Warden!_ " He was shocked enough by the realization that his legs, already wobbly, gave out entirely, forcing him to sit down suddenly on the deck, back to the railing.

"That I am," Oghren said agreeably, setting the clean chamberpot down beside him. "How are ya feeling?"

Alistair barely heard, realizing now that Oghren was merely the closest of several wardens aboard the ship; what felt like three or four others below decks somewhere, Oghren right beside him, and one up at the front of the ship; one of the two men standing there and talking. He levered himself back to his feet, leaning heavily on the rail and staring forward, squinting his eyes against the sun. One roughly dressed in natural colours with a long queue of sun-bleached blond hair, the other more finely dressed, with neatly trimmed shoulder-length black hair. He turned his head toward the other man, and Alistair's breath caught at the glimpse of a familiar profile.

"That... that's..." he stuttered as he began to make his way forward, staring in disbelief at the man. No. It couldn't be...

"Hey, where ya going..." Oghren said.

The men at the prow turned and began walking back down toward the waist of the ship. Alistair forgot his hangover, forgot his unsteadiness, and let out a roar of rage, charging forward toward the pair of them. The entire world seemed to slow and quieten, the edges of his vision going dark, narrowing in on the hated face of Loghain Mac Tir. He was dimly away of Oghren shouting something, of a sea gull gliding down to land on the railing behind the two men, of the slap of his bare feet against the smooth wooden deck, of the two men's faces turning oh-so-slowly toward him, the stranger – the ship's captain, he supposed – looking startled, Loghain's face still and calm, watching him with little more than mild interest, no fear.

He drew back his arm as he leapt toward the man, already anticipating the impact, how _satisfying_ the crunch of bone under fist would be...

Suddenly things moved very quickly indeed, a confusion of motion and then the bone-rattling feeling of his back impacting with the deck, driving the air out of him. For a moment he couldn't even breath, mouthing working but lungs frozen. Loghain was standing over him, looking down at him with much the same calm expression, the captain standing a few feet away, looking amused.

"Young idiot," Loghain said, sounding put-upon, and nudged him with one foot. Alistair managed to finally draw breath, and attempted to roll over, meaning to get to his feet and resume the attack, only to find himself retching and collapsing back to the deck, head banging painfully off the planks. His vision went dim again, his ears ringing, as he almost passed out.

"Sorry, ser," Oghren said from somewhere nearby, having apparently chased after him. "Didn't realize he was going to do that."

Loghain sighed. "The reaction is not unexpected. See he makes it back to his cabin without falling overboard." And left, resuming his conversation with the ship's captain as if nothing had happened.


	5. The Honour of the Wardens

There was no point in making a scene – or at least, no point in making an even bigger one than he already had – so Alistair allowed Oghren to take him back to his cabin. Only once the door was closed behind them did he finally turn and look at the dwarf. "All right... tell me what's going on. Why am I on this ship," he demanded.

Oghren sat down on the bench. "You remember a really nasty cocktail you drank out of a big silver goblet a few years back? Being told you were a Grey Warden from that day forth?"

Alistair's mouth thinned angrily. "Of course I do. It was the proudest day of my life. But I stopped being a Grey Warden the day Solona showed me just how little the honour of being a Grey Warden meant to her..."

"Honour! Hah!" Oghren exclaimed, sounding disgusted. "You sure you joined the same order I did? The one filled with the conscripted dregs of society, with a salting of glory hounds? Being a Grey Warden has nothing to do with anything as senseless as honour, boy. And it's not something you can stop being; it's what you are, like it or not, from the moment you touched cup to lips."

Alistair set his jaw stubbornly. "You're wrong! People compete for the chance to be a Grey Warden..."

"Only the glory-blind fools. Come on, Alistair, you can't be that naive; not after being a warden for even as few months as you were before you high-tailed it for the hills with your tail tucked between your legs. Most wardens are either criminals or desperate or both. Way more of them are conscripted on their way to the executioner's block or the gallows than ever join voluntarily, and even most of the volunteers are far from being the most upright members of society."

"Oh yeah? What does that make you then?" Alistair snarled.

Oghren smiled crookedly. "As big a fool as any other. Come on, you knew me back when – I was hardly a shining example or anything like that, now was I? I was a drunken, heart-broken fool and running from my responsibilities when I joined up," he said, then paused briefly, an odd expression crossing his face for a moment. "Smartest thing I ever did, in retrospect. Anyway, now you're the one who's been being a drunken, heart-broken fool. But like it or not, you're also still a Grey Warden, and it's time for you to get back to what that really means; duty. Duty, and responsibility, and a damn shitty job that no one else can or will do, until it kills you. Welcome home, kid," he said, then pushed himself back to his feet. "I'll go get you something to eat. Try not to get lost between the door and the bed," he added, and abruptly left.

Alistair wavered for a moment, thinking of leaving the cabin a second time... only what was the point? It wasn't like he could jump overboard and swim back to shore. He was stuck on this ship until it made port, and really, he had little interest in seeing or talking to anyone else aboard. He went and climbed back into the bed, turning his back on the room, only grunting acknowledgement when Oghren returned with food.

"Fine, be that way. I'll just leave it here on the floor," Oghren said, sounding irritated, and left again.

Alistair remained where he was for a while, until the growling of his stomach reminded him of just how long it had been since he'd eaten. Finally he sat up and fetched the tray Oghren had left on the floor near the door, holding a large bowl of fish-and-potato stew, a big hunk of coarse bread split and spread with some strong-flavoured sharp cheese – goat's milk, he thought – a large mug of strong sweet tea, and a handful of dried fruit – mostly prunes, with a couple slices of dried apple and one of pear, and a single dried black fig. He inhaled the soup and bread, then returned to his bunk with the tea and fruit, wondering as he lay down again just how hard it would be to get away from Loghain and his wardens once they reached land.

Probably not very easy, he found himself thinking. Not unless he picked his moment very carefully, so that he could be well beyond range of Grey Warden senses before they even realized he was gone. And then he'd have to outpace any possible pursuers for as long as it took to make good his escape. Loghain was Arl of Amaranthine, which meant it would likely be very difficult to leave Ferelden by that port, but he could always head south to Denerim. West to Highever was also a possibility, or even further west, into Orlais. Though that would mean passing close to Jader, an idea he didn't like, as there was a Grey Warden establishment there are well, and he had no interest in putting himself into the hands of the Orlesians.

He napped for a while, until Oghren returned yet again to remove the empty tray. "Any chance of a drink?" he asked. "I could really use a beer or two about now."

Oghren just gave him a look. "No. You can have all the fresh water or tea you want, but it's time for you to crawl back out of the bottle. I'll be back later this evening with your supper," he added, and left.

Alistair stared at the door, then returned to his bunk with a muttered curse.


	6. Homecoming

Loghain stood by the railing, watching the passing shoreline. They should be docking in Amaranthine in another hour or two, the captain had told him. He glanced at the dwarf standing nearby. "How's the boy doing?"

Oghren grimaced. "About what you'd expect; too nauseous to eat or drink much of anything, even if he had any appetite. Can't sleep, but too depressed and exhausted to do much more than lie there and moan. About what I was like, only not anywhere near so bad, since he hasn't been at it as long. He'll live, he just won't thank any of us for it for a while yet. If ever."

Loghain smiled slightly. "As I recall you weren't exactly full of thanks yourself."

Oghren grimaced. "Maybe not, but I still know I'm better off now than I was before. Give him time; maybe in a year or three he'll start to see it that way too. Once he's got enough time and distance to have some perspective on it."

Loghain snorted. "Distance isn't something I can give him. And precious little time, too, most likely. I wish we'd found him sooner."

"Wouldn't have done us much good to have found him during all that business with the talking darkspawn," Oghren pointed out.

"No, maybe not... but I still resent the wasted time. Still, the past is not something I can change," he said tiredly.

Oghren nodded. "I better go check on him again. Get him changed and ready to go ashore."

Loghain nodded acknowledgement, and turned his attention back to the passing landscape, feeling happier to know that his boots would soon be on Fereldan soil once more.

* * *

The boy looked just as bad as Loghain had expected; skin pale and clammy, with great dark circles under his eyes. He walked unsteadily – more so than could be explained simply be being on shipboard for a handful of days – and there was a slight tremor visible in his hands. He was also visibly nervous, head and eyes jerking around at every little sound or movement, of which there were many on the crowded waterfront, his eyes wide and almost frightened. Loghain grimaced, and turned away, knowing all too well just exactly how bad the boy likely felt at the moment, and how little he probably wanted any witnesses to his distress.

Though he didn't allow his pity to overcome sensible caution; he'd ordered Cale and Edrick to stay close to Alistair until they were all safely back at the Keep, and he was sure the men would do so. Cale, once a blacksmith before darkspawn had killed his family, was bigger and brawnier than Alistair had been even at the peak of his condition; a peak he had slid some considerable distance from in his years of dissipation. And Edrick, though not as large, was the veteran of many a nasty bar brawl before an accidentally broken neck had landed him in jail, accused of murder. What he lacked in brawn compared to Cale he more than made up with in brains and dirty tricks. Between the two of them and Oghren, it was highly unlikely that Alistair would go anywhere but where Loghain wished him too.

The walk across the crowded city to the stable where their mounts waited was tedious, even with most people hastily clearing the way for the uniformed wardens. Loghain allowed himself a slight smile, and nodded gravely to those who recognized him and called out his name. He was a hero here, both for saving the city during the Plague Year after the Blight War, and for all of his work as their Arl ever since. Yet he'd never grown to like the adulation they gave him; it was an emotion he distrusted, having seen before how easily it could turn to dislike and distrust, even outright hatred. He'd been a hero before, after all.

He was pleased to be reunited with his horse, a rather fine gelding imported from the north that had been a present from his daughter; as hard as horses were to come by in Ferelden, it was a rather princely gift. A pity he'd been cut; by Ferelden standards he'd have made a good breeding stallion, but the standards of Ferelden were of necessity rather lower than that of places such as the Free Marches, the Fereldans having lost most of their own horses during the years of the occupation and rebellion. The Orlesian invaders had, rightly, considered them to be valuable in war, and hence had killed off any local horses than came into their hands, apart from a few particularly well-bred ones they'd either taken for their own use, or shipped west to Orlesian markets.

Most of the horses he and his wardens had – and they had very few – tended therefor to be of very low quality; nags and culls, mostly geldings, and a handful of mares, only a couple still young enough to breed. In horse-poor Ferelden, even these poor beasts were grounds for jealousy, most people having to make do with shank's mare or ox-drawn carts.

It wasn't long until they had their mounts tacked up, their excess gear stowed on the pair of pack mules they'd also left here, and were able to mount up and go. It was too late in the day for them to make it all the way to the keep before dark, but Loghain felt that he'd rather make camp partway there than stay overnight in the city. And it was pleasant, to be back in his own lands, riding home.

Though clearly not as pleasant for young Alistair; not too far out of the city they had to stop long enough for him to dismount and vomit in the bushes, the movement of riding clearly disagreeing with his already sensitive stomach. After the third time it happened, Loghain ordered him to walk, with Cale and Edrick keeping him company.

"We'll go on ahead and set up camp at the usual spot," he told them, and then rode off with Oghren, Jowan and the pack mules. It wasn't very much further – less than an hour's ride at a decent pace - before they reached the spot he'd meant, a small clearing in a copse to one side of the road, by the foot of a tall rock-face. Water trickled out of a crack in the rock, outflow of some underground source, and gathered in a small pool by the base of it before overflowing into a brook not much wider than his outspread hand and flowing away downhill. A fire-pit ringed with soot-blackened stones stood to one side, wood already chopped and stacked to dry under the shelter of some tall pines at the clearing's edge. One of many such spots along the warden's most regularly travelled routes where such could be found, one of the local farmers or woodsmen paid to see to it that the stack of wood was topped up regularly.

He'd considered more formal shelters – small cabins, kept stocked with food and blankets and the like in addition to firewood – but had to reluctantly agree that such would merely end up a target for thieves, or home to squatters, if left unguarded. And it wasn't as if this arling was as unsettled as the Teyrnir of Gwaren had been; there were few places in his lands that weren't within a couple hours walk of some village, town, or cluster of farms. Shelter and supplies could always be found in a pinch.

Oghren laid a fire and started hauling out supplies to make their dinner while Loghain and Jowan saw to putting up the tents. Something Loghain had done so many times in his life he barely needed to pay attention to the work, his body almost automatically going through the motions of spreading canvas, raising poles, pounding in pegs, tying off ropes and the like. Jowan had a frown of concentration on his face as he worked, and occasionally muttered or swore to himself. Loghain had two of the three tents up before Jowan had even finished one, and shooed the mage off to go help Oghren with the cooking while he finished raising the third tent himself.

By the time their missing wardens finally arrived, Alistair looking foot-sore and tired, the pot hung over the fire was already giving off good smells, the three wardens sitting at their ease. Alistair sat down in what was close to a collapse, not even bothering to make use of any of the log seats by the fire. Loghain frowned, then looked to Jowan, and nodded his head toward the boy. The mage hastily rose and went over to check on him. Loghain carefully closed his ears to whatever response the boy made, aware only of the surly tone of it.

Jowan returned to the fireside a couple of minutes later. "Blisters," he said. "Feet and, err... saddle-sores. I've healed them and put him to sleep for now; he's exhausted. I'll wake him again when it's time to eat."

Loghain nodded, and dismissed any further worry about Alistair from his mind; his men had the boy well in hand.


	7. To Vigil's Keep

Alistair listlessly stirred at his bowl of porridge, feeling exhausted even though he'd actually slept the night before, the mage having put him to sleep after he'd finished his dinner the night before; so much for any hope of sneaking away in the night.

"Eat it," Oghren growled. "It's a good few hours to the Keep yet, and you'll need the energy."

Alistair grimaced, but obediently spooned up and ate more of it, not even really tasting it. At least his stomach seemed marginally less queasy this morning, which gave him hope that it wouldn't make an abrupt re-appearance as most of his recent meals had. Everyone else had finished eating and were striking camp before he was finally done. The mage snatched the bowl from his hands and rushed off to wash it the moment he was finished, and was back and packing it away by the time Alistair had managed to get to his feet.

"You look terrible," the mage said, coming to a stop in front of him and frowning slightly.

He had a soft, slightly nasal and oddly familiar voice. And an oddly familiar face, too, Alistair found himself thinking, wondering if he'd met the man before. And if so, where.

"Here, let me," the mage said, stepping closer, his hands rising toward Alistair's head.

Alistair flinched away a step, dropping automatically into a defensive crouch and almost tripping over his own feet in the process. The mage stopped and gave him a mildly inquisitive look, waiting patiently with hands still partially raised. He flushed, embarrassed at his overreaction, and straightened up again, forcing himself to stand still as the man touched his temples, a brief flare of magic lighting his hands. His headache faded, not disappearing entirely but at least becoming much less overwhelming, and with it went most of his remaining nausea and exhaustion as well.

"You _are_ a mess," the mage said softly. "I can't do much more than that until we're at the keep though," he added, then turned away, scooping up the pack and carrying it off to where the largest warden was busy loading the folded up tents on one of the pack mules. Alistair watched him leave, puzzled still by the sense of familiarity, then turned to find Oghren walking over to him.

"You want to take another try at riding today, or just walk? We've another two to three hours of travel to reach the keep; longer if you're walking."

Alistair grimaced, remembering how sore and ill he'd felt by the time he'd dismounted yesterday. But walking was little better; too much time spent sitting on a tavern bench and drinking had largely destroyed the endurance he'd previously had, when he could walk all day without anything worse than mild soreness. "I'll ride," he said.

"Good. Come on and lets get you mounted up," Oghren said, and led the way over to where Loghain and the other warden were saddling their horses.

That was at least something Alistair also knew how to do properly, from his days as a stable-boy in Redcliffe, and he quickly gathered up the saddle for his own mount – an elderly mare, well past her prime – and soon had her tacked up and ready. The mage and the big warden had come over and were saddling their mounts as well by then, the slightly smaller warden busily saddling the small horse – barely more than a pony – that was Oghren's, the dwarf being too short to manage that himself. Within a few minutes they were all in the saddle and moving on.

Alistair rode near the back, just behind Oghren and with the two large wardens in back of him. The mage was riding up at the front with Loghain, fragments of their conversation sometimes drifting back to where he was; something about herbs, and the area of slightly wilder land they were currently passing through.

It surprised him how good it felt to be back in Ferelden. No other place looked or sounded or smelled quite the same. The trees and weeds and hills here looked _right_ ; like home. He remembered passing though here – or at least, somewhere near here – with Solona and the rest on one of their myriad journeys across Ferelden, hurrying west along the confusingly named North Road, on their way from Denerim to Ostagar. Maker, but he missed her. Her smile, her laughter, even the rather scarily intent expression she'd get when they were in a fight. The feel of her magic buzzing against his senses as she rained destruction on their enemies. His hands tightened on the reins, and he swallowed thickly, then abruptly urged his horse forward a few steps, to walk alongside Oghren.

"So how'd you end up in the Grey Wardens, anyway?" he asked.

Oghren snorted. "Same way I seem to have ended up doing most things in my life; by getting blind-drunk first of all, and then listening to the booze instead of to sense. You know, they gave me a commission in the Army of Ferelden after it was all over? Not that _that_ lasted long; I'm just not really cut out to be a leader. Having a thousand men looking to me for orders scared the piss out of me. So I deserted. Was planning to leave the country entirely, maybe go join a mercenary company in Nevarra or something. Didn't want to risk going back into Denerim to take ship, so I headed north toward Amaranthine instead. Never made it; by the time me and my good buddy the keg of beer reached Vigil's Keep, I decided it would be a great idea to join the Grey Wardens instead."

"And they took you? Even drunk?" Alistair asked, surprised.

Oghren laughed. "Hah! No, they turned me down cold. Bunch of Orlesian pike-twirlers! But I was too damned drunk to move on by then, and bought another couple of kegs from a passing merchant and decided to just squat in the guest room they'd given me and wait for the Warden-Commander to arrive and appeal directly to him."

Alistair blinked, then stared at Oghren. "You wanted to appeal to _Loghain!?_ " he asked in tones of disbelief.

"Said I was was drunk, didn't I? Anyway, a few days later I'm woken from a sound sleep by a hurlock kicking in my door. Thankfully I sleep with my axe at hand, so he didn't get more then a couple steps into the room before I started whittling him down to size, starting by cutting him off at the knees and working my way up to more vital bits and pieces. Killed a couple genlocks trying to crowd in after him, then slammed and barred the door, got into my armour, and went out the window while they were still trying to break it down. It was pretty crazy after that; the keep was swarming with darkspawn. I was in the middle of what I thought was going to be my final battle a couple hours later when suddenly in walks the Commander with a raw recruit and a fancy-pants mage he'd picked up on the way into the place. So the four of us cleared the rest of the place ourselves."

"And after that you joined up?"

"Yeah, of course. He could hardly tell me no after that. Besides, he was fresh out of wardens by then, the darkspawn having killed them all. Mage and I survived the joining; the recruit didn't. Too bad, she was a fine woman – knew just exactly what to do with a sword in her hand."

"If you now make a joke about her strokes, I'll have to hit you," Alistair muttered, winning a loud laugh from Oghren. Loghain and the mage glanced briefly back at them, then resumed their own talk.

"Is that the mage there? He doesn't look too impressive," Alistair pointed out.

"Him? No! Entirely different mage. Anders was... he was... okay, well, imagine a male version of Solona, as far as enthusiastic destructiveness goes, but with Zevran's libido, and you'll be getting close."

"That's... a rather frightening combination."

Oghren snorted, looking amused. "He was that."

"Was?"

"He's gone now; we think he's dead. A year or so back Loghain got called on to attend some big warden do up in Navarra. To make sure he couldn't turn down attending on the grounds of having no other warden senior enough and knowledgeable enough to hold down the fort while he was away, they sent some warden of their own to deliver the invitation – command, really – and take his place while he was gone. So he went away for a couple months, and a whole bunch of stuff happened, at the end of which Loghain came back from the north pretty seriously pissed off; they'd tried to force him to give up his command here and go join a Grey Warden establishment in _Orlais_ of all places instead. Anyway, Anders had disappeared by then, along with a recently recruited warden – an ex-templar, kind of like yourself except this one had actually been a serving templar for a good six or seven years before joining up. We tracked the pair of them to a clearing with a bunch of dismembered and partially burnt bodies in templar armour; there was the shreds of a couple suits of Grey Warden armour mixed in with it all too. Whatever happened there, Anders must have gone down fighting hard. Poor bastard."

Alistair shifted uneasily. He'd come to trust that some mages could use their destructive potential for good – like Solona had – but the thought of what horrifying things mage powers could _do_ was still unsettling to the templar-trained part of himself. "Him up there, is he like that too? All about the lightning and the explosions?"

"Jowan? Nah, he's nothing like Solona or Anders were, except for being a pretty damn fine healer. More like Wynne, except without the mother-henning and self-confidence."

"Jowan... I know that name, I'm sure I do."

Oghren laughed again, a real belly-laugh this time, which drew longer stares from Loghain and Jowan. Finally he sputtered to a stop. "Think back a couple of years, subtract the tan and give him a prison pallor instead, unwashed hair, imagine him in a certain prison cell in the basements of Redcliffe Castle..."

" _Him!_ That's... _that_ is Solona's blood mage friend!?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Except he doesn't actually do blood magic, ever. Says it's 'too great a temptation and far too great a danger'. Mostly he just heals people. He's pretty damn good with glyphs and runes, too. Not so much at making things explode, freeze into a corpsicle, or burst into flames, he's less showy than that. Damn good man to have at your back in a fight though. One of mine," h added with a note of pride in his voice.

"One of yours? I'm not sure what you mean," Alistair said, puzzled.

"Hah! One of my men! You're talking to _Senior_ Warden Oghren, I'll have you know, one of the three patrol-leaders at the Keep. Jowan over there, and these two slabs of meat behind us are all mine," he said, and twisted around in his saddle to gesture at the two wardens riding patiently behind them. "The ogre disguised as a Grey Warden is Cale. The smaller one is Edrick. They already know who you are."

Alistair turned enough to meet their eyes and exchange brief nods of greeting with them before turning his attention back ahead of them. "Is that the keep there?" he asked, pointing toward a distant, barely visible smudge of grey stone on a hillside overlooking a river.

"Yeah, that's her – Vigil's Keep. A damned fine fortress; the Howe's had let it go to pot, but Loghain hired some dwarven masons to knock her back into shape. Good thing he did, or the darkspawn would have overrun it when they attacked again. It needed a lot of repairs afterwards, even so – they're still rebuilding her."

"The darkspawn attacked twice?"

"You mean you didn't hear about that wherever it was you'd vanished off to? Yeah, a few months after the first attack we had a big war up in these parts against two different forces of darkspawn, one army of them attacking the city of Amaranthine, and a second headed for the Keep. The Commander was up in Amaranthine when it happened, so he stayed and defended the city. Those of us left at the fort had to defend it; me and the mage and a spirit we'd picked up from the Fade, plus a bunch of guardsmen and whatever villagers and servants and so on were on hand."

Alistair turned and stared at Oghren, sure the dwarf must be pulling his leg. "A... spirit?"

"Yeah. Claimed to be a spirit of Justice; I'll tell you the long version of the story some time if you remind me, the short of it that he got forced out of the Fade and ended up in the body of a dead Grey Warden. Helped out the wardens for a while, then lost his head during the second darkspawn battle at the keep; literally, it was cut clean off. We figure he ended up back in the Fade after that. Anyway, since no one was going to follow orders from a walking corpse or a skirt-wearing mage, I ended up in charge. We held out for a few days while waiting for relief. I don't recall too much of the last day of fighting myself, I took a bad blow to the head near the end of it, but I'm told I held the gate against two ogres at once and pretty much saved the day."

"Really?" Alistair asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"He's telling the truth," Cale spoke up from behind them. "I was there during the fight; the ogres broke down the gates, and the darkspawn were about to charge into the courtyard. Those of us on the walls and in the courtyard would have had to fall back, maybe attempt a fighting retreat into the Keep proper, and more likely would have died. But Oghren charged forward and engaged the two ogres within the gate, among the rubble and timbers, and the smaller darkspawn couldn't get by with those two big brutes blocking the way. Oghren took down one ogre, then fell to the other, but by then we'd had enough time to rally, and were able to kill the second ogre as well and use their corpses as part of a bulwark while we held the gate opening against the darkspawn. And then a little while later the army finally arrived from Denerim, and that ended the battle pretty fast. Those of us who survived that day owe our lives to Oghren."

"Bah! It was nothing," Oghren said, sounding embarrassed but looking pleased, his cheeks flushing pink as he smiled. "Just doing my job."

"So you joined the wardens after that?" Alistair asked, twisting in his saddle to look back at Cale.

"Yes. Didn't have much choice about it; I was tainted. It was join or die. There were a lot of us in that position by then," Cale explained.

"What were you before you joined?" Alistair asked, looking over the large man's impressive muscles.

"Blacksmith. I'd headed to the keep looking for help after wandering darkspawn killed my family," he said, a grim expression crossing his face.

"I was a dockworker in Amaranthine," Edrick spoke up. "Wasn't no taint that made me join up though."

"What was it then?" Alistair asked curiously.

"He's a murderer," Cale said. "Killed some lordling's brat in a bar fight."

"It wasn't no murder! It was just a bar brawl that ended with some fool farmboy dead. Neck snapped; I hit 'im wrong I guess," Edrick said, looking mulish. "Normally wouldn't mean anything, but his father was a Bann and had me brung up before the Arl on charges; he wanted me dead, like his boy was. But the Arl figured that was a waste of a good fighter and conscripted me instead."

"Huh," Alistair said, and turned his attention forward again, remembering what Oghren had said a few days ago about wardens and their reasons for joining; the desperate and the criminal. A tainted blacksmith and a murderer; that certainly fit both categories.

He remained largely silent the remainder of the trip, as they rode down into the river valley, over the river – the Hafter, he remembered – on an arched stone bridge, and up the hillside to where the Keep squatted. A small village and terraced fields spread outside its high walls, the fields and walls and the single dusty road alive with people of all three races, a number of whom called out greetings to the passing wardens.

Within the outer bailey of the keep were more houses, and the stables. He was relieved when they stopped there, and bit back a moan of pain as he dismounted, sore muscles protesting. It was annoying to notice that he was the only one in the party so afflicted, even Oghren clambering down from his horse without any sign of difficulty. A dwarf being a better rider than a human... something just seemed so _wrong_ about that.

There was a loud squealing noise, and a small figure darted through the legs of men and horses alike before coming to a stop with both arms wrapped around one of Oghren's legs, a chubby little face peering up at him with a wide grin on its... her... face. A child; a dwarf child, the hair on her head the same shocking orange-red shade as Oghren's.

"Princess!" Oghren exclaimed, sounding as pleased as the child looked, and bent down to hook his hands under her arms and pry her loose, before lifting her up and giving her a tight hug that drew a delighted crowing sound from the child. "Err, Warden-Commander, is it okay if I...?"

Loghain looked around, and to Alistair's surprise an actual smile crossed his face as he caught sight of the toddler in Oghren's arms. "Yes, yes, go ahead, I'm sure Felsi will be pleased to see you back in one piece," he said agreeably before turning back to removing his gear from where it was tied on behind his saddle.

"You're a father?" Alistair asked.

"Yeah. Married Felsi – you remember her, don't you? The barmaid from the Spoiled Princess that Solona helped me hook up with?"

"Err... right. I remember her," Alistair agreed. Though what he mainly remembered of the dwarf was how much she'd seemed to dislike Oghren... then he spotted a vaguely familiar face moving up behind the dwarf. "Isn't that her?"

Oghren turned, and his face lit up with a huge grin. "Felsi! You're looking just as pretty as usual," he said, and leaned forward past her obviously pregnant belly to kiss her on the cheek.

"Took you long enough to get back," she said. "What did you do, walk the whole way?" she asked, and plucked the little girl from his arms. Despite the sourness of her words, there was a surprising fondness in her tone, and a pleased smile on her face. "Come on, I've got a list of chores as long as my arm for you to take care of now that you're home."

"Right. See you around later, Alistair," Oghren said, turning to look back at him and lift one hand briefly in farewell before hurrying after the woman, catching up to walk beside her, and then wrapping one arm behind her waist in obvious affection as they left.

Alistair looked around, and found the mage at his side.

"Come on, the Commander wants you healed, fed, bathed and changed before he sees you in formal court this afternoon," Jowan said. "We'll need to stop at the quartermaster's first of all and get you some appropriate clothing. This way," he said, and turned and walked off toward the gate into the inner bailey.

Alistair followed, figuring he didn't have much choice, especially when Cale and Edrick were still trailing along after him, clearly still under orders to see he didn't attempt escaping.

Formal court... he didn't think he much liked the sound of that.


	8. Jowan's Story

Jowan frowned as he peered into a cabinet full of glass flasks, then took one down and poured some of its contents into a cup, re-corking the flask and closing and cupboard before carrying the cup over to Alistair. "Here, drink this," he said.

Alistair accepted the cup, and peered into it, sniffing suspiciously. There was a strong herbal odour, and he could see flecks of vegetation floating in the murky yellow-green liquid within. "What's this supposed to do?" he asked.

"Help with the aftereffects of alcohol abuse," the mage said. "If I'd known to I would have brought some along with us, but Loghain neglected to mention your expected condition until we were already at sea. It should settle your headache and nausea, and help you to sleep better, among other things."

"Oh. Thanks," Alistair said, and drank it. He half-expected it to taste like swamp-water, but it was actually... rather pleasant. A little mouth-puckeringly bitter at first sip, and then the flavour mellowed out. He drank all of it and handed the cup back. Jowan put it aside, then waved at a nearby door. "There's a bath through there, as well as toiletries which you're welcome to use. You should be feeling properly hungry again by the time you've washed and changed."

Alistair glanced toward the door into the room, where Cale and Edrick were standing guard to either side of it, looking bored. He felt reasonably certain that turning down the offered bath would be pointless. Doubly so once he considered how vile he felt; his last bath involving anything more than a wipe with a salt-water-dampened cloth had been back in Kirkwall, over a week ago, and he was feeling more than a little sticky. Not to mention fragrant. Especially after several hour both today and the day before on horseback, and sleeping in his clothes the night before. So he gratefully accepted the stack of clean clothing they'd picked up at the quartermaster's store on the way here, and took himself off into the bathing chamber.

It was a rather nice room, the walls lined to the height of his shoulder with pale-coloured glazed tile, and floored in green-blue slate, with a drain to carry away any overflow from the tub. The tub was a big hammered copper affair, with real dwarven plumbing, and he happily started it filling before stripping out of his filthy clothing. A shelf near the tub held a partially used bar of soap – nice stuff, smelling of herbs, not like the cheap bars of brown lye soap he usually used. With the aid of a water jug from a stand near the small window – little more than a glassed-in arrow slit in size, nothing he could possibly escape by even if they hadn't been several floors up – he poured water over himself several times to rinse off the worst of the dirt before finally climbing into the tub.

The water was a murky grey by the time he'd washed his hair and scrubbed himself from head to toe, and he was starting to feel considerably better; whatever was in that herbal concoction the mage had given him seemed to be doing its job, at least. He rose from the tub, pulling the plug so it could drain, the water running across the floor and disappearing down the inset drain. He quickly towelled himself mostly dry, before wrapping the towel around his waist. There was a razor among the things on the wash stand, and a shaving brush, and a small mirror fastened to the wall beside the window. He soon had his chin and cheeks lathered up, and carefully removed the scraggly beginnings of a beard that over a week without shaving had given him.

By the time he'd finished drying, combed out his damp hair, and changed into the provided clothing – leggings of dark blue cloth and a tunic of light grey, with a griffon outlined in blue embroidery on the left breast, with stockings and soft indoor shoes – he was feeling pretty good. At least until he considered what all this was leading up to; formal court. That sent his mood crashing back down. He was likely going to be brought up on charges of desertion, he found himself glumly thinking, and it wasn't like he could claim that wasn't what he'd done. He _had_ deserted, run away in the face of the enemy, and not just some all-too-common darkspawn enemy, but an _Archdemon_ , what the Grey Wardens had been formed to kill in the first place. Their reason for existence, when you got right down to it.

And Solona had died, killing it.

He stood there for a very long time, just staring blankly at the wall, until a knocking on the door roused him.

"Are you okay in there?" Jowan called through the door. "You're being awfully quiet."

"Yeah..." he started to call back, and had to stop and clear his throat when his voice cracked. "Yeah, I'm fine," he continued. "I'll be right out."

He looked around the messy room, feeling far more sober – in both body and in mood – than he had in ages. He looked at the pile of filthy clothing discarded on the floor, then picked up the damp towel and wrapped it around them to make a neat bundle, which he left beside the door. The tub was empty, the soap back where it belonged, the shaving brush rinsed and standing on end to dry. He picked up the razor, staring at it for a long minute, then slowly folded it shut and put it away as well.

* * *

Lunch was eaten in Jowan's room, at a small table positioned under the window. Judging by its scarred and stained surface it doubled as a workbench for the mage. Edrick joined the two of them at the table; Cale had vanished off somewhere. Judging by Edrick's own freshly washed-and-changed appearance, Alistair guessed the pair were taking it in turns to freshen up from their journey as well.

His appetite was back enough for him to make substantial inroads on the meal before them – a thick soup, bread, and cheese, with a cobbler made of stewed dried pears and raisins for dessert. Edrick took equally large servings, though Jowan, surprisingly for a Grey Warden, took only a small serving of soup and bread, and as soon as he was finished took some clothes out of a clothes-press near the bed and carried them off into the bathroom.

"Leave Jowan some dessert," Edrick said when Alistair was serving himself a second helping of cobbler from what was left in the pan. "He's got a sweet tooth."

"All right," Alistair agreed, and put back the spoonful of it he'd been about to add to what was already in his bowl. He took his time eating, mostly lost in thought. Very circular thoughts, wandering back and forth between worries over what punishment Loghain might decide was appropriate for his crime – which could go as far as some pretty gruesome methods of death, if he'd been brought back here to be executed – to thinking about those last few days in Denerim with Solona, before she'd betrayed him. Or he'd betrayed her. Before they'd betrayed each other. The mix of fear and shame soon had his stomach feeling unsettled again; he had to force himself to each the last couple spoonfuls of the now-tasteless dessert, not wanting it to go to waste.

Surely Loghain didn't mean to execute him. If that was what he'd wanted, he could have done it just as easily back in Kirkwall; he wouldn't have even had to wake Alistair first, just drawn a sword and lopped off his head. But apart from being brought back here against his will, and forced to stop drinking, he'd been reasonably well-treated since being captured. Unless Loghain wanted to make a point and have Alistair serve as a very bad example of just what happened to deserters from the Wardens, he thought uneasily, and pushed his empty plate and bowl away. "I could kill for a tankard of ale right now," he muttered.

Edrick snorted. "Good luck with that," he said in a tone of voice that made it clear just how slight a chance he thought there was of ale being anywhere in Alistair's near future. Alistair sighed, and slouched back in his chair.

The bathroom door opened and Jowan re-emerged, his hair still damp from bathing. He resumed his seat at the table, and pulled the pan of cobbler over in front of himself, happily settling down to eating what remained directly from it. Alistair watched him, frowning slightly.

It was hard to believe this was the same mage he'd seen in the dungeons at Redcliffe; that man had been scrawny, pallid of skin, his hair long, loose and greasy, his cheeks heavily stubbled. He'd cringed away from everything – the light of their torches, their voices, any movement they made. He'd obviously been broken by his experiences in the cells. Only after he'd recognized Solona had he come near the bars, pleading anxiously with her. Alistair remembered how heart-broken her voice had sounded as she'd finally commanded Leliana to pick the lock, and told the mage to run away and never come back. Jowan had fled, flinching away from them as he scurried past them and off in the direction they'd entered, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. Or a knife in the back.

This man only barely resembled that one; the same face, the same pale grey eyes and faint worry-lines on his forehead, the same black hair, though merely damp now, not lank with grease, neatly barbered and braided. His skin had a healthy tan, and he sat upright, not hunched, his eyes clear and alert. Alistair flushed as he realized that Jowan had taken notice of his examination of the man as was looking curiously back at him.

"I don't know if you remember meeting me before," he found himself saying. "At Redcliffe."

"I remember," Jowan said, his voice soft and calm. "That was a bad time for me," he added, and neatly ate another spoonful of cobbler. "Not just before, but after, too. I didn't know where to go, or what to do once I got there. I was Tower-raised, you know; I'd never really been outside, until I fled. I decided to head back to the tower and turn myself in. Only I managed to get myself turned around and lost instead. I ended up wandering around in the Frostback mountains over the winter, dodging wandering darkspawn and bandits and wolves, and trying not to freeze to death. Or starve."

"How'd you survive?"

"Luck," Jowan said, and smiled crookedly. "Stumbled over a cave. Had to kill a bear to claim it for my own use, but that at least gave me warm clothing and plenty of food for a while. I looked like a Chasind barbarian by the spring; I was wearing uncured furs and thin as a rake, and half out of my mind from the fear and loneliness. I finally managed to find my way back into the lowlands; I was in the Hinterlands somewhere south-east of the lake by then, as far as I've been able to reconstruct it since. Finally came across civilization – an inhabited farm – just in time to save the farmer and his family from a darkspawn attack. They didn't want me staying around or anything, of course, but they let me bathe, traded me some food and clean clothes for the furs I was wearing, told me which way to go to get back to the lake."

He ate another couple of bites of cobbler, then smiled ruefully. "I got lost again, of course. I'm not very good at keeping track of directions. I'd start out each morning walking northwest, using the sun as my guide, and then get turned around again before noon, and not be able to sort myself out until mid-afternoon. And even then I was as likely to end up going east or northeast or north as to the northwest."

Alistair pictured Ferelden in his head, easily imagining the sort of route the mage must have wandered. "So you ended up in the Bannorn, eventually?" he hazarded a guess.

Jowan smiled, looking please. "Yes. Given my sense of direction, I'm surprised I didn't end up in the Brecilian Forest, actually. I was lucky enough to not reach Lothering until shortly after the darkspawn had abandoned it, headed off to wherever it was the Archdemon was calling them to. Denerim probably, guessing by the likely dates of when this was – I lost track of time as well as direction, I only know it was sometime in the mid to late summer by the time I reached the Bannorn. I was still trying to make it back to the Tower, but by then I'd gone so far east that I'd actually been closer to the Tower when I was still at Redcliffe. At least in the Bannorn I could usually find other people, and work for food or shelter – I learned how to do a lot of basic farm chores, like feeding chickens and turning the soil in fields. Weeding. Milking cows and goats. Chopping wood. That sort of thing. I'd work long enough to get food to last me a few days, maybe a few coins, and then move on again."

He scraped the last of the cobbler out of the pan, ate it, and licked the spoon clean before putting it down. "I never did make it back to the lake, obviously, or I'd likely be a dead man by now. Or Tranquil. But most likely dead. Word came out of Denerim, about the battle... all the dead. Solona," he said, a look of sorrow crossing his face.

He fell silent, just turning his head and staring out the window for a while before finally resuming, his voice even softer than before. "She was... I didn't have many friends, growing up. Never good at making them, or keeping them. But Solona... she was my friend. Like a sister to me, if I'd ever had one. Maybe I even did; like I say, I was tower-raised. I know nothing about who my parents were, or if I had any siblings. Solona was my sister, my friend, for so many years the only person I cared about, or who cared about me. When I heard she was dead..." He paused, and shook his head.

"I don't remember much of that winter," he continued, looking back to Alistair finally. "It was better than the previous one, at least. I'd found a farm to work at through the fall harvest, and worked so hard they were willing to let me stay over the winter. And then, in the spring... the darkspawn came. It seemed all I did for weeks after that was run around killing darkspawn, rescuing people, escorting them to safety, healing the wounded when I thought I could safely do so. Eventually the Warden-Commander tripped over me; luckily for me, since some templars were on my trail by then. They caught up shortly after he'd finished questioning me about who I was and what I was up to. When they demanded he turn them over to them to be taken off and executed, he told them no and conscripted me on the spot. He doesn't think much of the chantry, you know."

"Don't you blame him for what happened to you at Redcliffe?" Alistair asked, surprised. "He hired you to poison Arl Eamon! You wouldn't have been in that dungeon if not for him."

"No, I don't blame him," Jowan said, and shrugged. "Mostly I blame me, for being so naive. Anyway, it wasn't Loghain that told me to poison the Arl," he added, then rose to his feet and began stacking empty dishes on the tray in the middle of the table.

"What!? But you told Solona it was! You said you'd been taken before him, you were sure it was him because you'd seen paintings of him, and he asked you to poison the Arl..."

"No. That's not what I said," Jowan said calmly. "I said I was only taken before him once. All Loghain said was that Arl Eamon was dangerous to the nation, and then asked for me to take the position of tutor to Connor."

"But... then why did you poison Arl Eamon?" Alistair asked, puzzled.

"Because Arl Howe ordered me to do it. He supplied the poison; he told me under what conditions I was to use it. Howe promised that if I dealt with Eamon, Loghain would settle matters with the Circle so that I could return home to the tower, afterwards. I was stupid enough to believe him. All Loghain ever wanted was a spy in the Arl's household, not an assassin. Everything else was Howe's idea. Anyway, we should get a move on – it's almost time for court."

So saying, he wiped his hands clean with a napkin, neatly folded it and set it down on the tray, then looked expectantly at Alistair. Alistair rose, and silently followed him out of the room, his two guards – Cale having returned unnoticed at some point during their lengthy conversation – trailing along behind.


	9. Formal Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will by necessity be a number of OC Grey Wardens appearing in the story (we're already met two of them - Cale and Edrick - and there will be more). Screenshots of what they look like can be seen at [this post](http://msbarrows.tumblr.com/post/43098387300) on my Tumblr for the curious.

"The Great Hall," Jowan said quietly as he led Alistair through a large well-reinforced door and into a very large room.

Alistair looked around, craning his head to take it all in. It was a very tall room, the white-plastered walls almost a full two stories in height, than the ceiling rising well above even that height. A row of massive square-cut wooden columns lined either side of the room, supporting a network of beams that held up the roof, the smoothly finished interior surface of it pierced at regular intervals by wide windows, filling the room with light. The walls were filled with artworks – paintings, tapestries, small inset shelves full of statuary and other objects, large floor-to-ceiling niches lined with bookshelves or containing larger decorative items. A circular fire-pit occupied the middle of the room, a low fire in it making the air in the room pleasantly warm and dry, breaking the wide expanse of thick carpet that otherwise ran from one end of the room to the other, paralleled by narrower lengths between the columns and the side walls.

Banners hung from the rafters, striped in blue and grey and marked with the griffon sigil of the Grey Wardens. At the far end of the room was a broad platform, raised a couple of steps above the height of the floor, with a large throne-like chair in the middle and a long bench to either side. Loghain was seated in the chair in full armour, turned slightly and leaning on the arm as he talked to someone seated on the bench to his right, an elderly woman with her grey hair pulled sharply back into a bun. A middle-aged man in shiny silverite armour sat beside her, while an older man, with a martial bearing but unarmoured, stood beside and slightly back from the throne.

To Loghain's right sat three other people, all in Grey Warden armour; a hawk-nosed man with a surprising resemblance to the Warden-Commander, and two dwarves; Oghren, and a female dwarf with short black hair and the stark facial tattoos of a member of the Legion of the Dead.

Clusters of additional people stood along both sides of the room, from just before the steps to just in front of the fire-pit, all wearing either Grey Warden armour or clothing of grey and blue like Alistair had been supplied with. They were talking among themselves when Alistair first entered behind Jowan, but quickly fell silent, heads turning to watch as Jowan led him forward and around one side of the fire-pit to the cleared space in the middle. It made him feel very self-conscious, all those strangers staring at him. And yet, at the same time, he felt such a strong feeling of belonging, as his Grey Warden senses filled with the warming sensation of _others like me_ in close proximity.

Jowan came to a halt. "Stand there," he said in an undertone, gesturing at a slightly worn spot in the thick carpet, then turned away and walked off to the side, moving to stand with a pair of other people just in front of one of the columns. One was a female elf, pale-skinned, with blond hair and bright green eyes, dressed in the rather revealing robes that Dalish mages seemed to prefer. Her face was marked with delicately tattooed lines, and a faint frown crossed it as she studied him in turn. The second was a broad-shouldered man with dark skin, a bushy black beard and sleeked-back hair. He had startlingly pale grey eyes, and his face was heavily marked with lines of black and blue tattoos, while he positively dripped with gold jewellery and piercings – multiple gold rings of various sizes along the edges of his ears, a gold stud in his left nostril, a heavy gem-set gold torque around his neck, and serpent-form bracelets around his biceps – all signs of a high-status Rivaini.

Loghain cleared his throat. Alistair hastily returned his attention to the front of the room, where the Warden-Commander had apparently finished his conversation with the woman, and was now rising to his feet. He took a position before his seat with his feet slightly apart and his hands folded together behind his back, glancing once around the room before turning his attention to Alistair. Alistair gritted his teeth, stomach roiling for a moment with the force of his hatred for the man.

"Alistair Theirin. You have been summoned before this gathering of your peers to answer to the serious charge of having deserted from the ranks of our brotherhood during a time of Blight. Of forsaking your sworn vows; of failing your sworn duty. How do you plead?"

He swallowed uncomfortably, feeling a flush start in his cheeks. He could hardly claim innocence; it was, after all, exactly what he'd done. Walked out; run away. Forsworn his vows, forever besmirched his honour, and worst of all, abandoned Solona and left her to face the Archdemon with only help from Riordan and Loghain, both of whom had failed her. He drew a deep breath, unconsciously dropping into the same pose as Loghain. "Guilty," he said, his voice cracking mid-word.

There was a short silence, then a brief whispering among those gathered. He lowered his gaze, flush darkening further, unable to even look at the other Grey Wardens; the men and women who would _be_ his brothers and sisters if he hadn't fled. And maybe... just maybe, if he'd stayed... Solona would still be among them. After a few seconds he forced himself to rise his head again, blinking against a suspicious wetness in his eyes. Loghain let the whispering go on briefly, then lifted a hand for silence.

"Alistair Theirin, do you have any explanation, excuse, or justification you wish to present to us to explain your actions?" Loghain asked, voice quiet, but still loud enough to carry to all those watching.

Alistair frowned in thought for a moment. What could he possibly say? That he despised Loghain and would rather be foresworn than serve at his side? That his feeling of betrayal when Solona had not just allowed his brother's murderer to survive, but had actually extended the honour of being a Grey Warden to Loghain, had been too much to bear? When he'd stormed out of the Landsmeet, his anger had been so great that he'd felt like it was the only thing he _could_ do – and it was also an action he'd regretted every single day since.

"No. No excuses," he said, voice hoarse, managing only be an effort of will to keep his head up rather than dropping his gaze to the floor again.

Another brief outburst of whispering among those gathered. Loghain let it continue considerably longer this time before signalling for it to end. He took a half-step forward from his throne, then looked around the room. "Brothers. Sisters. I believe this once-brother of ours is not beyond redemption. Based on personal knowledge of the events surrounding his desertion, I can say that I do not believe that it was cowardice that led him to flee our ranks, nor any fear of facing of the Archdemon. I believe that given time Alistair could once again become a valuable member of our ranks. I ask you to gather in your patrols for discussion; if any of you have questions or reservations, make them known to your Senior Wardens now. They will be given an opportunity to question the prisoner on your behalf before any decision is made."

The three Grey Wardens seated on the bench all rose and walked to different corners of the room, the crowd of wardens breaking up and then reforming in three clusters around them; a Senior Warden and three lesser wardens in each group, except the female dwarf's group, which had four. Each group huddled together, talking quietly enough that whatever they said did not carry, though Alistair was certainly very conscious of the glances many of them sent his way. He kept his head up, forcing himself to concentrate on the griffon-marked banner hanging on the wall behind the throne rather than what was going on elsewhere in the room.

It seemed a very long time before the three groups finally broke up, the Senior Wardens returning to their seats on the bench and the rest gathering in a loose arc around him again. Silence fell again, without Loghain having to signal for it. He turned to face the seated wardens. "Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe, do you have any questions you wish to ask the prisoner?"

Alistair blinked, shocked. A Howe? Wait, hadn't Nathaniel been the name of Rendon's oldest son, the heir... He took a second, closer look as the man rose to his feet. Nathaniel looked very little like Arl Rendon, other than a certain length of face and beakiness of nose. The man bowed his head briefly to Loghain, then turned to look at Alistair.

"Alistair Theirin, we have heard many stories of the travels of yourself and Solona Amell during the Blight Year. You were senior to her in the Grey Wardens, were you not?" His voice was surprisingly deep, with a slightly nasal quality and what sounded like a very faint Marcher accent, Alistair thought.

"Yes, I was."

"Yet you allowed her to take the initiative and be the leader of the pair of you. Why was this?"

He swallowed, and licked his lips. "I... after Ostagar. I was having a hard time. So many died... all the wardens, except for Solona and myself. So many men... my brother... brothers." He had to stop a moment, and take a deep, shuddering breath, all of it coming back so clearly in memory. "My Warden-Commander, Duncan. It was Solona that kept the two of us going. By the time I'd recovered enough to care about anything again, it seemed obvious to me that she had a knack for leadership. I was content to follow her; to support her choices."

"Until the Landsmeet?"

"Yes. Until the Landsmeet," he agreed, and glanced toward Loghain, who was standing still and listening with the same unreadable expression on his face as before.

"No further questions," Nathaniel said, and resumed his seat.

"Senior Warden Oghren Kondrat, do you have any questions for the prisoner?" Loghain asked.

The dwarf rose, and hooked his thumbs into his belt. "I have no questions to ask. However, I would like to say that based on my personal knowledge of the events surrounding the prisoner's desertion of our ranks, I agree with the Warden-Commander's evaluation that is was no cowardice or fear of facing the Archdemon that led Alistair to abandon our cause, and that he is not beyond redemption." He paused, as if thinking of more to say, then shrugged. "That's all."

As he resumed his seat, Loghain turned to look at the female dwarf. "Senior Warden Sigrun, do you have any questions you wish to ask the prisoner?"

She didn't bother rising, just smiled cheerfully. "Not a one, boss!" she called out, her response drawing smiles and amused looks from many of the wardens. Even Loghain looked fleetingly amused.

"Senior Wardens, I propose to reinstate the prisoner Alistair Theirin as a provisional member of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and to personally oversee his retraining as a warden. I would ask that in a year's time his case be re-examined, at which time if his progress is deemed satisfactory I would further ask that he be reinstated as a full member of our brotherhood once again."

"And if he fails?" Nathaniel asked.

"Then I would expect that he will meet the usual penalty for desertion in battle," Loghain said, a sombre expression crossing his face. "Death." He waited briefly; there was no sound other than a hushed silence. "Senior Wardens, may I have your judgement on this matter."

They each rose in turn, all of them looking serious now.

"No objections," Nathaniel said.

"None from me or mine either," Oghren declared loudly.

"No objections," Sigrun also said, entirely serious in mien this time.

Loghain gave the three of them a very shallow bow, then turned back to look at Alistair. His expression was very cold and stern. "Alistair Theirin. With the permission of my brother and sister wardens I name you a provisional member of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. You have one year to redeem yourself in the eyes of our sworn brethren. During this time you will serve as my squire, and will endeavour to learn all such subjects as I assign you. Rather than being made the responsibility of one of the Senior Wardens, you will be under my direct orders. You will also be expected to obey any order given to you by a Senior Warden that does not conflict with my existing orders to you. If such a conflict arises, you are to immediately inform the Senior Warden of the nature of the conflict, and then follow their judgement as to whether you are to obey their order or obey mine; I trust them not to overrule my order except in cases of need," he added, glancing toward the three for a moment, then turned his attention back to Alistair. "Do you understand this judgement?"

His mouth felt dry as old toast. "Yes," he said, voice hoarse with tension. _Maker!_ Having to work directly with Loghain... that was what had made him leave Ferelden in the first place! At least it wasn't a death sentence they'd dragged him back here for, but he couldn't help wishing they'd just left him where he was.

"Do you have any questions about this judgement?"

"No," he said, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice.

"Then I declare this formal court finished," Loghain said. His shoulders relaxed as he looked around the room. "Dismissed," he called out, then looked at Alistair. "Wait there a moment," he ordered, and turned away, walking over to talk to Sigrun.

Alistair stood motionless, waiting, as the room quickly emptied out, only a few of the wardens pausing to glance his way before leaving. Jowan diverted his path to stop for a moment beside him. "You'll be fine," the mage said quietly. "He's a good man."

Alistair set his jaw, making no reply as the mage left. _A good man_... he couldn't believe that. Even if it hadn't been Loghain himself that had ordered Arl Eamon's poisoning, there was too much else he was responsible for.

Including Solona Amell's death. Even if Alistair did blame himself in large part for it, for having walked away when she still needed him... it was Loghain who'd been there with her on the roof-top at the end. So it must be Loghain's fault that she had died there.


	10. New Quarters

Alistair glared at Loghain's retreating back, then looked at the approaching dwarf. She was short, shorter even than Oghren; short even for a dwarf. Words like 'petite' and 'scrawny' came to mind as she walked towards him. She had short black hair tied by in stubby ponytails, and the S-shaped cheek tattoo of a Duster overlaid with one of the skull-like full-face tattoos of the Legion of the Dead. An odd combination; last he'd ever heard, the Legion was restricted to Warrior caste dwarves, it being considered an honourable vocation, even if a deadly one.

She stopped just a little more than a foot away from him, leaning back slightly and hooking her thumbs in her belt as she looked him over. He returned the look, and found himself adding 'dangerous' to the list of attributes as he eyed her well-worn armour and the sharp-edged daggers she wore. "Nugbait but you're a tall one," she said, frowning slightly. "Come on, the boss wants me to take you to get properly outfitted."

She walked by him, heading for the door he'd entered by. He turned and followed, having to take a couple of long strides to catch up, and then easily staying alongside her. "I'm Alistair," he told her.

She glanced sideways at him. "I know," she said, then paused after a moment, before turning to face him, a look of realization crossing her face. "Oh, wait, you mean you want to be properly introduced and everything?"

"Err... yes?"

She smiled crookedly, upper lip lifting in a curl that bordered on being a sneer; but as she continued speaking he realized it was just the way her mouth moved; lopsided, as if the left side couldn't open quite as far as the right. "I'm Sigrun, which you'd know if you were paying attention in there."

"I was. I know. I just... how'd a Duster end up in the Legion of Dead? And then here? I thought they only took warrior caste?"

"Oh," she said, and shrugged, then turned and resumed walking. "Things changed, after Bhelen became King. He threw entrance to the Legion open to Dusters; said any who joined up and distinguished themselves in battle against the darkspawn would win warrior caste status for themselves and any sons they fathered. They were really only figuring on taking men, you see, but I'd had a friend who'd done Bhelen a few favours before he'd taken the throne. And I had another friend who was pretty close to him. So I was able to kind of diplomatically pull a string or two and get myself in; it was the only way I could see to ever get out of Dust Town. I didn't have the looks or the connections to be a noble hunter, even if I'd ever wanted to. Which I didn't," she added firmly.

"And then you ended up as a Grey Warden... why? How?"

She shrugged again. "The will of the Stone, I suppose you might say. My patrol was wiped out by a darkspawn ambush; all but me. I ran, when I saw the way the battle was going. Almost made it out of the Deep Roads, and then some darkspawn caught me anyway – hurlocks – and were dragging me back down under. But the Stone must have had plans for me – a group of Grey Wardens happened along just then, and rescued me. And then the whole group of us went back to where my comrades had died, and we avenged them all. Cleared out an entire nest of darkspawn – including several broodmothers. They would have been a bigger problem eventually if I'd died there too, the boss said; he wouldn't have known to go down hunting them if I hadn't survived and been there to tell him about the ambush. He told me it was a good thing I'd lived to hunt darkspawn another day, nothing to be ashamed of, and offered me a place with his wardens."

"The boss... you mean Loghain by that?" he asked, frowning.

She stopped walking again, and turned to give him a narrow-eyed look. "Yes, I do mean Warden-Commander Loghain by that. Why? Got a problem with it?"

"No," he said grudgingly, then as they resumed walking, found he couldn't keep an additional thought in. "Though _he'd_ certainly know all about running away from battle," he added bitterly. And yelped, as an armoured toe connected bruisingly with his ankle. He added 'fast' to her list of attributes. And also, at the moment, 'furious'.

"That's enough out of you about him," she said, her face mottled red with anger. "You're hardly one to talk about someone else running away, are you? _Deserter?_ "

It was his turn to flush, in mingled anger and shame. "No," he answered in a strangled tone of voice.

"No, you're not going to shut up, or no, you're hardly one to talk? Which is it?"

"No. I'm hardly one to talk," he agreed stiffly.

She glared at him for a long moment, then finally turned away and resumed walking. The two stayed silent until she led him through a door he vaguely remembered waiting outside of the day before with his two guards, while the mage had gone inside to get clothing for him from the quartermaster. "Herren," she called out as she walked up to the counter inside. "Got someone else for you to outfit."

"Coming," a voice called out from somewhere in back of the looming shelves, and a moment later a man walked around one and up to the counter. A man with a familiar face, the name familiar as well.

"I remember you," Alistair said, half-surprised. "Herren, right? You had a shop, in Denerim, with..."

"Wade," Herren said, nodding. "Yes. Until we were asked to come out here to the keep and help equip the new wardens properly."

Alistair frowned, looking over Herren's clothing; the same griffon-marked grey tunic and dark blue leggings as he himself had been supplied with. And realized he'd seen Herren earlier today, in the great hall, the fourth figure in Sigrun's group. "You're a Grey Warden!" he exclaimed, shocked.

Herren made a face. "Unfortunately yes. Not that I had much choice; it was attempt the joining or die."

"He was here during the siege," Sigrun spoke up. "Him and Wade both."

"Wade came through all the fighting without a scratch on him, but _I_ wasn't so lucky," Herren said. "Blight disease; I'd have died, if the Commander hadn't come back so quickly afterwards. He did a joining ritual for all of those who were still strong enough to attempt it."

"Over half of them died anyway," Sigrun said sadly. "The rest are wardens now."

Alistair cocked his head to one side, frowning as he looked Herren over. The man wasn't old, but he looked to be on the high side of middle aged, and not particularly fit. "And you fight?" he asked, perplexed.

Sigrun and Herren both laughed.

"Only when I have to," Herren explained. "The Warden-Commander feels my talents are more useful here at the Keep."

Sigrun grinned. "Keeping Wade in line and working happily. And dealing with our suppliers; Herren's _good_ at haggling. Not bad with a pair of knives, either, if another body is really needed for a patrol, but we're better off using him as support than as front line."

"Speaking of Wade, if you want this man-mountain geared up we'd better get him in here," Herren said, running an evaluating eye over Alistair. "He'll need to take measurements."

Sigrun nodded, and Herren disappeared into the back again. There was apparently a door back there somewhere; they heard it open and close. Alistair and Sigrun waited for his return.

"So how many wardens are here now?" Alistair asked after a while, wanting to break the silence.

"Including you? Fifteen," Sigrun said, and frowned unhappily. "We need more."

"Why? The Blight's over."

"Up here on the surface, maybe, but you've seen the Deep Roads. There's still plenty of darkspawn down there. We're helping Orzammar to clear out and recover the old thaigs; if we can recover the Deep Roads underneath Ferelden, there's that much less chance of a second break-out ever happening here. And that much more chance of warning from the dwarves if something nasty is going on, _before_ it becomes a problem up top too."

Alistair frowned in thought, then slowly nodded, remembering the things he'd seen down there with Solona when they'd been searching for the Anvil of the Void. "Good point," he agreed grudgingly.

The door opened again, and Herren soon walked back into view, the blacksmith following close behind him. Wade was as big and as bald as Alistair remembered, though his once-dark moustache and line of beard were now lightly touched with greying hairs. Under Herren's watchful eye Wade quickly took a number of measurements, scrawling numbers down on a slip of parchment and complaining bitterly about how long it would take him to make a full set of Grey Warden heavy armour, and how boring it was to work on, and when was he ever going to get to work on something _nice_ again. Herren and Sigrun both alternated flattering and soothing him, and he was soon headed off back to his forge, looking pleased despite all his complaints.

"Well, that will take a few days to put together, but we'll have you properly outfitted soon," Herren said. "Now, what else do you need?"

"He'll need a full kit of clothing and toiletries and so on," Sigrun spoke up. "Towels and bedding too."

Herren nodded, disappearing into the back to rummage among his shelves. He returned in a surprisingly short time with a bulging backpack and a cloth-wrapped parcel. "That should be all. If there turns out to be anything else you need, just come on by and ask for it." And then made them sign off on a long list of what had been supplied to Alistair; for his records, he said.

"Come on, I'll show you where you're to be quartered," Sigrun said. "And then give you the grand tour, so you know where everything is."

She led the way up through the Keep, several floors up. "This is mostly Grey Warden quarters on this floor," she said, gesturing around them as she led the way down a broad corridor on the third floor. "Used to be part of the Howe family quarters, but the boss had it all made over. Little suites, one per person. We have enough room for more than twice our number before we'd have to start making people double up. There's also some quarters for the officers of the guard, and barracks downstairs for the rest of them"

"The guard... they're for the Arling?"

"Yeah. There's three different groups that answer to the boss; us wardens, the soldiers that are his responsibility as Arl of Amaranthine, and the city guard in Amaranthine, who answer to him through their captain. The soldiers and city guard mostly stick to their own duties, though they can call on us or us on them if needed."

"Right," Alistair said, frowning slightly. "What about Gwaren?"

"That's not his any more; he was stripped of his title when he was made a Grey Warden. The Queen holds the title now. He's only Arl of Amaranthine."

Alistair refrained from pointing out that being an Arl was hardly an 'only'; it wasn't small thing, in a country that only had a double-handful of those. Besides, it meant that between the two of them, Anora and Loghain controlled almost half the country. Technically all of it, when you considered that Anora was Queen, but half of it more directly.

Sigrun led the way up another set of steps, a spiral staircase winding up within a tower at one corner of the building. There was a small landing at the top, and a doorway – with a very thick-planked door standing open – leading to a foyer area. A pair of guards stood there, wearing the shiny silverite mail and that seemed to be the uniform of the Arling's guards. They were holding a pair of ceremonial pikes, but Alistair noticed that the pair also wore entirely serviceable swords at their belts.

"Senior Warden Sigrun. You're expected," the guard on the left said, the pair of them stepping aside from the doorway they were guarding.

The door that filled it looked every bit as stout as the door at the top of the stairs was; even heavier, with metal strapping to reinforce it. Heavy enough to have been the door to the keep itself, not just to rooms within it. Which Alistair only belatedly realized should have made him guess where he was being brought, as well as the fact that the door was guarded; into the personal quarters of the most paranoid man in Ferelden. But they were in Loghain's sitting room, the man looking up from where he was sharpening a sword in a chair near the window, before it sunk in to Alistair just where they were headed.

"I thought you said you were showing me to my quarters," he said to Sigrun, keeping his eyes locked on Loghain as the man calmly looked back at him. "There seems to have been some mistake."

"No mistake," Loghain said, and pointed with the sword at the entrance to an archway leading off of the spacious sitting room. "Through there. Second door on the left is your rooms."

Alistair's jaw set. "I'm to stay in your rooms?" he asked, voice tight with disbelief and anger.

"You are going to be my squire," Loghain said with a strong I'm-being-very-patient tone to his voice. "Which means you need to be on hand at all hours, not off in the bowels of the Keep somewhere. These rooms include squire's quarters, and quite nice ones at that, as the Howe's used them for the fostering of allied noble's sons. You have your own study, bedroom, and bathing chamber. Now go put your things away. Sigrun, you might as well go back to your own duties; I'll see that Alistair gets a proper tour of the keep later."

"Sure," she said, looking worriedly back and forth between the pair of them, then turned and left.

Loghain went back to polishing his sword. After a few minutes, when Alistair hadn't moved, he looked up. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes. I don't want to be here. I don't..."

"What you want or don't want is immaterial," Loghain interrupted, and rose to his feet, setting the sword aside. "You are _here_ , you are under my orders, and you will obey them. Now go put your things away."

Alistair just stood frozen, staring at him. Part of him knew he was being foolish to resist; he'd agreed to this, when he agreed that he understood the terms of his provisional reinstatement downstairs. But to actually _obey_ this man's orders; to live here, in these rooms with him... his stomach churned. His muscles were so tense he was trembling.

"Alistair..." Loghain began, taking a step forward.

The rage burst free. The backpack and parcel he was carrying hit the floor as he lunged for Loghain, a loud scream of anger bursting from him as he once again tried to attack the man. And had no more luck at it than when he'd first tried on the ship; a single confusing flurry of movement led to the air being knocked out of him as he landed hard on the floor. Before he could rise he found a knee pressing painfully into his kidneys, his arms yanked back and held. He couldn't break Loghain's grip. He swore furiously as he struggled, only barely aware that the two guards had burst into the room, and that Loghain was reassuring them and telling them to go back to their posts.

He stopped struggling, eventually, realizing it was futile. "Had enough?" Loghain asked, sounding more bored than anything.

Alistair flushed, still angry, and now feeling humiliated as well. He pressed his forehead against the cool wooden floor, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths through his nose, jaw muscles working. "Yes," he managed to grate out at last.

Loghain released him and rose. "Go put your things away," he said again, not even a trace of anger in his own voice. "Come back here when you're done. We need to talk, you and I."

He didn't say anything in return; he didn't even look at Loghain. He just gathered up his things, and started off down the hallway.

"Second door on the left," Loghain called quietly after him.

He stopped, realizing he'd been about to walk right by it, and felt another surge of irritation and anger. He forced it down, then turned and opened the door.


	11. A Squire's Duties

Alistair leaned back against the door, his stomach churning with a mix of anger, resentment, and shame. The old man had put him down so _easily_ , as if he was an untrained boy, not someone who had been a well-trained warrior. The operative words, he grudgingly admitted to himself, being 'had been'. Two years of spending most of his time parked on a bench and drinking had taken their toll; what had been hardened muscle was soft flesh now, his stomach swelling out in a noticeable gut. He'd already noticed on the journey here from the city just how low his endurance was, compared to what it had once been. His feeling of shame only worsened, as he catalogued all the ways in which he'd let his condition fade since leaving Ferelden.

He muttered a curse and straightened, dropping the backpack and cloth-wrapped parcel to the floor, and looked around. This must be the study, he decided, eyeing the desk pushed under a window in the wall to his left. There was a small fireplace in the opposite wall, flanked by bookcases – empty, and with traces of dust in the corners of the shelves, as if only recently cleaned. There were two doors leading off of the room, one on his right just beyond the fireplace and bookcases, and another placed slantwise in the back left corner of the room, beyond the desk. He walked over and looked through that one first of all.

A bathing chamber, built in a rounded room that must be one floor of a corner tower. There was a wide raised stone ledge filling in the far side of the room, most of its surface occupied by a metal tub inset in the stone. Above it was a large embrasure, with a narrow window at either side of the embrasure and the space in the middle filled in with shelving; a handy place to keep soap, towels, and other toiletries for the bath. To his left there was a washstand, with a mirror fastened to the wall above it, and a palm-wide shelf on which to keep things like his shaving supplies. Between it and the tub was a deep floor-to-ceiling cupboard.

He walked over and looked inside; the space was filled some sort of tall metal container. He tapped it with one knuckle; it made an odd sound, as if it was full of water, and when he pressed his hand to its side, proved to be hot to the touch. A memory stirred, and he bent down to look underneath, where a thin length of copper tubing ran into a piece of metal shaped like a large flattened ring, the top surface pierced with many pin-prick sized holes and dancing with flame. A boiler, he remembered now – he'd seen their like in the hostel they'd stayed at in Orzammar, and in Arl Eamon's Denerim mansion – a part of dwarven plumbing, used to keep water always warm for a bath. It burned the noxious gasses that would otherwise collect in cess pits. He rose and turned, and smiled in sardonic amusement to see that, yes, there was a garderobe closet on the other side of the small room. An obviously efficient system; wastes dropped down the shaft on that side, and the dwarven boilers made use of the gasses given off by it on this side. He wondered if the tower had been specifically raised with the function in mind, or if the plumbing had been added later.

He went and peered into the third and final room; a bedroom, as expected, a surprisingly large one. An empty armour stand was in one corner of the room, beside a large clothes-press, most of the room taken up by a sizable four-poster bed, currently devoid of hangings or bedding, the rope-laced frame filled only with a pair of ticks; a large one on the bottom that he assumed was stuffed with straw or similar coarse material, and a thinner one on top, doubtless filled with some finer material. There was also a large chest at the foot of the bed, and his eyes widened as he saw his familiar old backpack resting on top of it. Only as he hurried over did he notice the other thing that was there; a cloth-covered shield, leaning against the side of the chest. He stopped, just staring at it, then slowly walked over and bent down to lift it up. He ran one hand gently across the heavy canvas, seeing in his mind's eye the painted surface hidden under the cloth. Then sighed, and tucked it under one arm long enough to lift aside the pack and open the chest. He put the shield away for now, tucking it carefully into the bottom of the chest. Something to deal with later.

He put the backpack back on top of the chest, then returned to the study long enough to fetch the larger backpack and the cloth-wrapped bundle he'd left by the door. Time to put his things away; he was stuck here for now.

* * *

Loghain was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to go and winkle the boy out of his room when he heard the faint sound of a door opening and closing down the hallway. He set aside the book he'd been reading as Alistair entered the room, and gave him a rapid look over. The boy looked considerably more subdued now than he had earlier, shoulders hunched and head lowered, face almost expressionless, apart from a flash of dislike as he first looked up and met Loghain's eye.

"Sit," Loghain told him, and pointed to a chair facing his own. "There."

Alistair said nothing, just silently obeyed, big hands clasping loosely in his lap after he'd lowered himself into the chair. Loghain frowned, studying him silently for a long moment. The bright afternoon light streaming in a nearby window was not kind to the boy; it showed up the signs of his long dissipation all too clearly. The pale complexion, the dark bags under his eyes, the puffiness of his features and the slackness of what had once been muscular flesh. It roused a stray memory in Loghain; of how Maric had looked, when he'd finally talked the man out of his weeks-long immurement in his rooms after Rowan's death. He put it aside to consider later; right now it was merely a distraction from the job at hand.

"You will have a number of duties as my squire," he began. "Some few of which will involve your actually serving as my squire, but most of which will involve your proper education. Some of your learning will involve accompanying me on my daily tasks; other things involve information you will gain from books, or from teachings that I will ask others within the keep to undertake imparting to you. In addition there is the matter of your physical condition, which currently can only be described as execrable. Oghren will continue to oversee your recovery from your excess of drinking, with assistance from Jowan as needed, and apart from that you will be spending some time each day in exercise and practise at arms."

Alistair said nothing, just shifted slightly in his seat, hands tightening, his jaw setting stubbornly.

Loghain sighed. He'd seen that same bull-headed look before, on both Maric and Cailan. "I cannot force you to do any of this, though I can, of course, make it extremely unpleasant for you if you fail to co-operate. I would also point out that if you do not co-operate – if you fail to satisfy myself and my Senior Wardens – that we can and will punish you as harshly as the situation seems to justify."

"Kill me, you mean," Alistair said, his voice tight with anger.

"In the last extremity, yes. Though far more likely some lesser punishment, to make it clear to you that we are entirely serious in this matter. Time in the stocks, perhaps, or a flogging. Though there is a time limit on how long we can indulge you..."

" _Indulge_ me!" Alistair exclaimed, voice full of disbelief. "You'd call a flogging indulging me?"

Loghain simply sat and stared at the boy until he fell silent again, the resentment simmering off of him almost palpable. "I would. You're a soldier, boy, or at least you used to be one. You're a deserter, too. Tell me, in your training as a templar, what was the penalty proscribed for desertion?"

Alistair gritted his jaw, but when Loghain merely sat watching him, patiently, he gave in. "Flogging if it was judged to have been without forethought, with additional punishment such as confining to quarters or time in the stocks if their commander felt it needful. Execution for intentional desertion, ether by the sword or by hanging at the commander's discretion based on the severity of their crime."

Loghain gave a single tiny nod. "And do you know what the usual punishment for deserters is in the army of Ferelden?"

Alistair's jaw set again, but only briefly, and when he spoke again, there was obvious reluctance in his voice. "The cage. Death by exposure."

"Did Duncan ever tell you what the Grey Warden punishment for deserters is?"

"No." Very reluctantly.

Loghain rose, and walked over to a bookshelf, taking down a well-thumbed copy of a book, and resumed his seat, quickly flipping through it to find the page he needed, then held it out to Alistair. Alistair stared at the book as if it was a poisonous snake that might strike and bite him. "You _can_ read, can you not?" Loghain asked tiredly after a long moment had passed without Alistair moving to take it.

"Yes," Alistair admitted, grudgingly, then reached out and took the book, setting it down carefully in his lap.

"The right hand page, about halfway down," Loghain told him, and watched as the boy frowned in concentration, mouth silently shaping out the words as he read. Slowly; clearly not a skill he'd made much use of. He knew that Alistair had reached the relevant bits as the boy paled, then looked up, eyes wide in shock. "You'd do _that_ to me!?"

"No. A barbaric practice, and I suspect one in the rules more as a deterrent to the sort of hardened criminals that are most commonly conscripted into our ranks rather than out of any real intention or desire to make it the usual punishment. Though I am sure there have been times when it has been used, as a very gruesome example to the rest," he added grimly. "But rest assured, if the Senior Wardens and I decided that you were beyond redemption, and judged you a danger to others, we would kill you rather than allow you to walk free. Though far more humanely than by the method described there."

Alistair looked only slightly chastened. "I wasn't any danger to anyone where I was," he pointed out angrily.

Loghain snorted. "Perhaps not, but you weren't any use to anyone either, were you? You're a Grey Warden; something you once claimed to take pride in. A Grey Warden fights darkspawn. You belong _here_ , in Ferelden. There is a place for you here; a role. A job that needs doing."

"Being your squire," Alistair said, with contempt.

Loghain snorted again, in disgust this time. "A means to an end. There are things you need to learn; things you should have been learning a full decade or more ago, rather than learning how to shovel out horseshit or sing Andraste's praises. Things you _would_ have learned, if you'd been properly fostered out as Maric's bastard son rather than raised as a peasant by that clodpole Eamon. History, geography, genealogy, heraldry, mathematics, manners and etiquette, proper penmanship and diction, better horsemanship, a few other things. You are at least adequately trained in the basic martial skills, or _were_ , and will become so again, as well as learning more about strategy, tactics, command, and supply."

Alistair's expression had changed as he talked, from mulish to vaguely horrified. "All of that? In _one year?_ "

"No. We will only be making a start on it, in one year. A knight starts their training in all of that when they're first fostered out as a page, most commonly some time between their sixth and eighth year of age. They become a squire usually by their twelfth year, when they're large enough to begin learning at least the basics of their martial skills. And assuming all goes well, they become a knight in their late teens or early twenties, with at least a decade of training behind them."

"I'm no knight," Alistair said, with that stubborn set to his jaw again.

"That is self-evident," Loghain said dryly. "And you're damned old to be a squire, though as it stands right now a page of ten likely has more knowledge than you do. A situation we must rectify, as part of your training. But you are not an eight year old boy and we do not have ten years to accomplish it in; we will, of necessity, have to skimp a little, even if you apply yourself."

Loghain sighed silently, and sat back in his chair, studying the young man again. Alistair was looking at least somewhat chastened and thoughtful now. "Keep that book for now," he told him, gesturing to the volume still sitting open on Alistair's knees. "It's among the knowledge you will need to learn. Read it through several times. _Think_ about what you read. You'll be doing a lot of reading, and much of it will be things you must come to know was well as you know your own name, that you can call up from memory rather then relying on having a book to hand."

Alistair looked down at the book, then closed it, the fingers of his left hand resting for a moment on the flaking silver-foil griffon embossed on the worn leather of the cover before he looked back to Loghain again. He sat silently, but at least the stubborn tension had left his jaw.

"Your days will start early," Loghain continued. "Unless some other duty interferes, you and I will be starting our day with exercise down in the yard; you will rise, dress in the under-padding for your armour – practise with full armour will come once you are in better condition – and then come to my room to help me arm. Then at least an hour's practise in the yard, followed by breakfast in the refectory, after which you will have some time to bathe and dress in more appropriate clothing. The remainder of the morning you will spend in study, unless I tell you otherwise; you will be supplied with additional books as I judge you ready for them. You will lunch with me, usually here in my rooms, which we will use as an opportunity to work on your manners and conversation. I hold an informal open court most days after luncheon; you will attend me for that, after which you will spend some time in additional tutoring, which depending on the subject will be supplied by myself, one of my senior wardens, or such other staff at the keep as are particularly knowledgeable in the subject at hand. You will have a brief period of free time again until the evening meal, after which you will spend an hour or two with me to review what you have learned that day. The remainder of the evenings will usually be yours to do with as you see fit. Apart from these duties, you will also attend on me and serve as my squire whenever I need your services as such. Do you understand?"

Alistair drew a long breath. "Yes, I understand," he agreed quietly. Grudgingly, but agreement.

Loghain nodded. "Good. It's past noon now; for today you may chose whether you'd prefer to have a tray in your room, or to join me at table. Your duties will not start until tomorrow morning; you may use the remainder of the afternoon to settle into your quarters."

"And the tour of the keep I was supposed to have?" Alistair asked suspiciously.

"It can wait until after the evening meal."

Alistair nodded. "I'd prefer a tray in my room," he said. Loghain raised an eyebrow at him, and he bit his lip. "Ser. Please."

Loghain nodded. "I'll see that something is brought to you. You may go."

Alistair rose and left, taking the book with him.


	12. Morning Exercise

Alistair was woken by a bell ringing somewhere in his room. He groaned, and rolled over, tempted to just curl up and ignore it. But he felt relatively certain that would not be a wise thing to do, and made himself get up out of bed and stagger the few paces necessary to tug once on a rope bell-pull in the corner of the room, which signalled to the distant servant ringing the bell that he was now awake. He leaned heavily against the wall for a moment, forehead pressed against raised forearm, then sighed and turned around, leaning back against the wall as he eyed the inviting bed. Nope, returning to it was undoubtedly not a good idea either, as much as he wanted to.

Another sigh, and he straightened up, stripping off his nightshirt and tossing it onto the bed. He quickly dressed, in a padded shirt and leggings that had been delivered to his room the evening before, hastily resized to fit him from existing garments. He would receive a more properly constructed gambeson and quilted leggings to wear under his armour once they had been made, he was told. For now, this would at least serve to give him some protection during practice.

Stockings and boots completed the outfit, after which he left his own rooms and went down the hallway to knock on the door to Loghain's. "Come in," Loghain called out from inside, so he pushed the door open and entered.

Loghain had clearly been up longer than he had been, or at least was more efficient about rising and dressing; he was wearing his own under-padding and already half-armoured, busy fastening one of the buckles that attached his cuisse around his thigh. He barely glanced at Alistair, giving him a fast once-over, before nodding at the nearby armour stand. "Get to work. I would hope you already know how all of that goes on."

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, and walked over, picking up the second cuisse and walking around Loghain to where he could hand it to the man and then help buckle it on. It was at least familiar work, though it was almost three years since he's last helped another warrior with arming in this way; a painful memory, of assisting his fellow Grey Wardens to ready themselves before the battle at Ostagar. A battle they'd all died in, because _this man_ had walked away from the field with half the army rather than leading them in for the planned flanking attack. His jaw clenched in anger again, and it took all his control to continue with the arming, as he helped fasten on the heavy breastplate, the faulds and tassets, the vambraces and pauldrons and gauntlets.

"Good," Loghain said approvingly when he was done. "Carry my helmet down; I won't need it right away."

Alistair nodded, jaw clenching again, and picked up the helmet, tucking it securely under one arm before following Loghain out of the room. He remained silent as they left Loghain's suite, the Warden-Commander pausing for a moment to exchange a few words and a smile with the guards on the door before leading the way down through the keep, and out to a practise yard in back, tucked in between a wing of the keep and the hills towering in back, a sheer cliff forming one side of it. The yard was thankfully almost entirely deserted this early in the morning, save for a dark-haired archer practising at a line of archery butts on the far left side of the space. Loghain ignored his presence, leading the way to the other end of the yard, where a small open-fronted shed housed a stock of practise weapons, most made of wood or bundled river reeds, weighted to have a similar heft to the weapons they represented.

"Pick out a sword and shield to use," Loghain told him. "We'll warm up first, and then spar for a little while, so I can judge for myself just how out of condition you are."

That angered Alistair all over again, even if he knew that he _wasn't_ in fit fighting shape any more. He took some time over the practise swords, until he found one that felt right in his hand, then took a shield; less reason to be choosy there, the shields all being much the same size and shape. Loghain had already selected matching items, and was going through a series of exercises a few yards away, moving his left arm through blocking and bashing motions while his right hand slashed, stabbed and blocked with the wooden sword. Alistair moved away out into the yard as well, and began doing the same, frowning as he moved through a like series of moves. His muscles protested, his left arm tiring quickly of the weight hanging from it, and he was breathing heavily by the time he finished even one set of exercises.

Loghain, in contrast, was onto a second or third set of exercises and not looking any more discomfited than he had standing still upstairs while dressing in his armour; armour that significantly outweighed the mere padded cloth that Alistair wore. Alistair's hands tightened uncomfortably on the hilt and straps of his sword and shield, and he had to force himself to loosen them to the proper grip before continuing on with his own exercises.

He was blowing like a bellows, dripping with sweat, and sore by the time Loghain called to him to stop. Not to mention simmering with resentment, especially when he saw the look of distaste on Loghain's face as the man looked him over. "You're in even worse shape than I thought," Loghain said. "Perhaps it would be best if we wait to spar until you've had more time to recover your fitness. And your wind."

Alistair shook his head. He _wanted_ to fight Loghain, even though he was sickly certain that he'd lose. "Do it now," he grated out.

Loghain's eyebrows rose slightly, then the man nodded fractionally, a faintly approving look in his eyes. "All right," he agreed. "Let's do it."

He lost, of course, and in a humiliatingly short time; a pass of their blades, a solid thump of shields, then a sudden bash and shove from Loghain and he was on his back on the ground, Loghain's foot on his chest and practise blade held at his throat. Loghain shook his head. "At least one hour of exercises every morning, boy... sit-ups, push-ups, running, using your sword and shield, whatever you chose. We'll spar once a week to see whether you've improved at all," he said. "Starting today; you still have over half an hour left to go. Get busy," he added, then removed his foot from Alistair's chest, returned the practice sword and shield he'd been using to the shed, and walked off to the far end of the yard to speak with the archer.

Alistair rolled slowly upright to a sitting position. Maker, he was sore. He felt humiliated at how easily the older man had beaten him; humiliated, and ashamed. He forced himself to his feet, returned his own sword and shield, and walked off to one corner of the yard before painfully lowering himself to the ground. Sit-ups and push-ups... right. He could start with those. He was sure he'd be regretting it before the hour was up, but Loghain was right, blight take him... he was in terrible condition.


	13. A Brief Study

Alistair was feeling at least twice his actual age by the time he finished working out. He felt distinctly creaky as he rose to his feet again, his joints sore and protesting. Even worse than his own stiffness, however, was seeing Loghain sparring with Edrick in the middle of the yard, showing not the least signs of stiffness or tiredness himself though he'd been working out as long as Alistair had, and considerably more energetically.

Edrick was so big that his weapons – matched daggers – seemed small, almost lost in his big scarred hands. It surprised Alistair at first to see the man using daggers; with his size Alistair would have thought a sword and shield or even one of the big two-handed swords would be more fitting, but then he remembered that Edrick had been a dockworker before becoming a Grey Warden. Swords weren't a weapon favoured by labourers, daggers being easier to carry or conceal, and something that could still be worn even when working, where a sword would only be an annoying encumbrance.

It surprised him even more to see that Loghain was also using daggers in sparring with the big blond man, rather than a sword and shield. And neither man was using practise weapons – those were good sharp blades in both their hands, and they clearly both knew how to use them well. He watched them for a while, only turning when he realized he was actually _admiring_ Loghain's proficiency.

He hobbled back into the main building, making his was to the refectory he'd been shown the location of the evening before. There were only a handful of people there eating, all servants and guardsmen judging by their dress. He collected a share of breakfast from the dishes lined up on a table to one side of the room – a large bowl of a savoury herbed porridge, a small plate heaped with fried sausages the size of his littlest finger, a couple of bread rolls split and spread with soft white cheese and tart plum jam, and a large clay mug of strong tea sweetened with honey. He found a place to sit at an empty table, and devoured the lot, savouring the flavours of it all. The room had begun to fill with more people by the time he was done, including another warden, an elven female with dark red hair tucked back behind her ears. He glanced curiously at her, but didn't approach her, seeing as she was already involved in conversation with a group of servants.

The walk back upstairs to his quarters made him aware of just how stiff and sore he was feeling; a pain that he knew would only get worse over the days to come, before it eventually began to fade away. He was glad to reach his own rooms and shut the door behind him, knowing he didn't have to re-appear until the noon meal. On the other hand, he was going to have to dine with Loghain; _not_ a prospect he was looking forward to.

It was a relief to climb into a tub of steaming hot water and soak for a while, letting the warmth soothe away the worst of the soreness before he washed himself. The soap he'd been supplied with was pleasant, not the caustic brown lye soap he was used to using, but some nicer stuff, a block of a creamy-white colour that smelled vaguely floral. Chamomile, he remembered after a while from the scent; the flowers from it made a soothing tea.

He dressed in plain, serviceable clothing afterwards, a pair of comfortably loose drawstring leggings and an equally loose tunic, both of undyed cloth, with woollen stockings and soft indoor shoes. Apart from the socks and shoes it reminded him of the clothing he'd worn as a boy, when he'd worked in Arl Eamon's stable, except made of better cloth and with finer stitching. By the time he settled down at his desk with the book Loghain had ordered him to study, he was almost feeling good, apart from a certain lingering stiffness and a strong wish for a tankard of ale.

* * *

Loghain looked up as the boy entered the small private dining room that was part of his suite. "You're late," he pointed out, and went back to spreading butter on a split roll, still warm from baking.

"Sorry. I was caught up in my reading," Alistair said, voice barely more than a mumble.

Loghain gave him a slightly irritated glance. "Speak clearly when talking or you're wasting both your time and mine. And sit down; it's time to eat, not to loom in the doorway."

Alistair flushed slightly, but moved forward and sat down at the only other place set at the table, briefly looking over the food piled on his plate before picking up his cutlery and digging in. Loghain was pleased to see that he ate neatly, if rather overly quickly, with at least some degree of decorum; he'd feared that Alistair might have retained the sort of manners a stable boy might have – that is to say, none – but it looked like his years in the Chantry had put at least a rough polish on him. Still...

"Eat slower," Loghain told him mildly. "No one is going to carry off the plate before you're done."

Alistair flushed again, but slowed down. Loghain leaned back in his own seat, openly studying him for a moment. "Tuck your elbows in closer to your body, and don't hunch over your plate; lean forward from the hips with your back kept straight," he instructed, then nodded. "Better. How far did you get in the book this morning?"

Alistair sat upright and swallowed before answering; a small point in his favour. "I'm on the fourth chapter, the one about the duties of a warden in peace time."

Loghain nodded, mentally taking inventory of the subjects the book covered up until that point in time, and then proceeded, in between bites, to question Alistair and try to determine his retention and understanding of the material he'd read so far. The boy proved to be good at remembering what he'd read, but only adequate at understanding the reasons behind the rules and regulations, though once Loghain had talked him through the _why_ part of a few of them, he quickly picked up on the logic behind them, and began to make much better guesses.

"Continue on with the book tomorrow; keep in mind the things we've discussed today. Now, on to the next thing. I don't have court today; I will instead be spending the afternoon testing your knowledge in a number of areas so that I can determine which areas you need the most remedial work on. Come, we might as well do this in comfort in the sitting room.

He could help but feel a little amused at the look that briefly crossed the boy's face; clearly Alistair disliked the idea of spending an entire afternoon in his company. He wasn't exactly overflowing with joy at the prospect himself, but it had to be done. They were soon settled in the sitting room, he in his favourite chair – one he'd had sent on to the Vigil from what had once been his rooms in the palace in Denerim, made years ago by his father-in-law – and Alistair looking ill-at-ease nearby.

The boy's knowledge proved patchy. He could read, though not with any great speed, write a plain but reasonable hand, and was reasonably well-versed in basic maths as well as a smattering of history and some understanding the genealogy of the more well-known families of Ferelden. He had, it seemed, been being trained as a clerk before he was moved over into Templar training, and had most of the knowledge suitable for such. As a templar he'd also picked up at least some very basic training in tactics, though as Loghain had said the day before, a page of ten could outdo his knowledge in many areas.

Still, he was cautiously pleased; Alistair still had considerable to learn, but he had at least the basics of a number of key areas, which was more than Loghain could say about most of his wardens. It was mainly ignorance that Alistair suffered from, not any lack of intelligence. Ignorance was something he could easily correct, given some reasonable level of cooperation from the boy. Cooperation that was far from guaranteed, given Alistair's poorly concealed hatred for him. An emotion he could understand, even if it was grating to have to work with someone with such poorly concealed hostility. Still, doubtless it was ever more grating for Alistair.

He was sure they were both relieved when he decided that the session had run enough, and dismissed Alistair to go have some free time until the evening meal. _He_ certainly was, and retreated to his private study to spend a little time going over his correspondence and catching up on some of the administrative tasks that had gone undone while he was away in the north.

He dined with his senior wardens that evening, the four of them seated around a small table in a corner of the refectory, quietly discussing recent events in the Arling, and in Ferelden as a whole. Not for the first time he found himself wishing he had more wardens; with only enough for three patrols, he didn't have even close to enough wardens to adequately patrol all of Ferelden. Especially given his commitment to the dwarves of Orzammar to help with the clearing of the darkspawn from the Deep Roads – a promise whose keeping he'd inherited from Solona Amell, along with so very many other things.

Each patrol took it in turn to go on expeditions in company with the Legion of the Dead, slowly aiding in the recovery and resettling of the thaigs that had been cleared by Solona and Alistair and their companions during the Blight War. Kal'Hirol, under the Knotwood Hills of his arling, was their main base of operations, it being well-placed between his keep and the dwarven city. The ruins there were now home to a thriving colony of dwarves, many of them ex-Dusters who'd been raised into castes in return for taking on the dangerous task of resettlement there, the growing city providing a home base for the Legions. Even some surfacer dwarves had moved there, finding a ready market for their goods and skills.

But that commitment to the dwarves meant he could only use one other patrol at a time to cover all of Ferelden outside of the arling itself, since each patrol also needed a certain amount of down time spent in resting at the Vigil in between cycles of patrols. At any given time there was usually one patrol in the Deep Roads, one patrol out on the surface, and one patrol resting at the keep; having them all gathered together at once as they currently were was a rare occurrence. And a short-lived one – Nathaniel's group was due to head out on a patrol down to Gwaren and back starting the next morning, and Oghren's would only be here another couple of days before heading west to Kal'Hirol. Sigrun's group, only recently returned from a stint in Kal'Hirol themselves, would be remaining at the keep to rest up, having just completed both a patrol of Fereldan and a stint in the Deep Roads.

Thankfully there were far fewer darkspawn lurking about now than there had been during the Blight Year or the Plague Year. Yet there were still pockets of them being found, particularly in the south and the southwest parts of the country which were, naturally, the furthest away and therefore most inconvenient location for patrols to reach. He often wished he had a more centrally-located base; down around Lothering, perhaps. Or just a second base, somewhere down in the south, maybe in Ostagar; most of the place was ruins, but the Tower of Ishal still stood, and likely would for hundreds of years yet. But he needed more men, first and foremost, and new recruits were few and far between. He wished he had at least double the men he currently did.

A pity wishing for things didn't make them so; things would be so much easier otherwise.


	14. Unworthy

Alistair eyed Oghren with some resentment. "Not even one tankard? You're drinking," he said, pointedly looking at the large mug of ale by Oghren's plate.

"Yeah, and I can handle myself around drink these days. You're still drying out; you can have one mug of small beer a day, and tea or water the rest of the time."

Alistair made a face. "No one gets drunk on small beer."

"That's kind of the _point_ , Alistair," Oghren pointed out, sounding irritated. "Now shut up and drink your tea."

Alistair made another face, but did so, listening attentively as Oghren began talking with his group of wardens about the patrol they were leaving on the next day, heading to some new dwarven city named Kal'Hirol, and finding himself wishing he was going with them. Not that he had any great desire to be back in the Deep Roads, but... they were Grey Wardens, doing proper warden's work, and that was something he'd had only the briefest experience of in the past, during the few months between Duncan having conscripted him and the events at Ostagar. He'd liked it back then, being one of the wardens, even if he was the new kid, the junior-most, given all the nastier chores. And... he missed that. Being one of the group. Being _accepted_.

It wouldn't be the same now, of course. The Grey Wardens of Ferelden were led by Loghain, not Duncan; all of the men he'd known, his brothers in arms, had died at Ostagar, and he didn't know these new wardens. Looking at the men seated around the table and listening to Oghren, he found it odd to realize that in terms of time since Joining, he was actually senior to all of them, which made it doubly embarrassing how little experience of _real_ wardening he had compared to them.

He studied them each in turn, wondering about all of them. He knew a little of what had brought each of the four here, at least. Oghren escaping the responsibility for a pregnant wife who had followed him to the Keep anyway, the little dark-haired mage having no other real choice but eventual death at the hand of templars. Edrick, big and blond and blue-eyed, and a murderer, however accidental it had been, conscripted as an alternative to being jailed. Cale, even bigger, with his blacksmith's build, short steel-grey hair, and burn-scared cheek, who'd been dying of the Blight before undergoing the joining had given him at least a few years reprieve from the spreading taint. But that just told him _why_ they were here; it didn't tell him what they were like; how they handled themselves in battle, whether they would come to welcome him into their brotherhood in time, or if he would always be an outsider among them.

It left him feeling melancholy by the end of the meal, a sadness that lingered as he headed back upstairs to spend the evening in his rooms. He could have remained downstairs, he knew, but he felt like such an intruder on the close friendships of the other wardens. Like he didn't fit in. Anyway, it wasn't that fun to be around people who were having fun and relaxing and drinking when he wasn't allowed to. Well, there wasn't really anything stopping him from the 'having fun and relaxing' part, not really, except not being allowed to drink kept him from really relaxing when others were, and that didn't exactly leave him in any mood to have fun, either. Better just to go to his room and read for a while or something. Not that there was all that much to do, alone in his rooms. He still only had the one book, and it wasn't exactly a gripping read.

He reached Loghain's quarters to find he wasn't the only one who'd decided on an evening in; Loghain was seated in his usual chair in the sitting room, a book open on his lap and a hair of half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He glanced up over top of them as Alistair entered the room, then returned his attention to the book in his lap, not saying a thing and seemingly ignoring Alistair's presence after identifying who it was.

Alistair could feel himself tensing as he walked by him and made his way to his room, what little pleasant mood he'd been feeling beforehand – which was almost none, anyway – evaporating in the face of his hatred of Loghain. His hands were actually shaking a little as he opened the door to his room, so strong was the feeling. He wanted nothing more than to return to the sitting room and attack the man, but he wasn't stupid enough to try it. He'd already had it amply demonstrated to him that he was far too out of shape and out of practice to even lay a finger on Loghain, no matter how much he might wish to. And given that Loghain was the Warden-Commander... stomach churning sourly, he forced himself to find the book of Grey Warden regulations, and flip through it until he found the section dealing with things like insubordination. He knew what kind of punishment he could have expected as a templar for doing something as unwise as attacking one of his superiors... and unsurprisingly, the punishment he could earn in the Grey Wardens was much the same, if anything a little worse. He forced himself to read and re-read the section several times before putting the book back down on his desk and retreating to his bedroom.

There wasn't really anything there for him to _do_ here. He lay down on his bed for a while, arms wrapped around himself, and found himself wishing he was still back in Kirkwall, or any of the places he'd drifted through before there, with at least a few coins in hand and a tankard of ale, or a glass of wine, or even something stronger. Able to drink enough to forget, at least for a while, what a mess he'd made of his life. Able to forget that he'd walked away from Solona when she needed him. Able to forget that she'd died without him. He rolled over and pressed his face into his pillow, but the expected tears didn't come. He felt only emptiness, and guilt, and the deep shame that was what most made him wish he could seek the oblivion of too much drink.

He rolled over again after a while, and sat up, hunched over on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands. He wasn't back in Kirkwall. He wasn't elsewhere. He was here. And much as he might have tried to delude himself otherwise on the way here, escape wasn't a realistic option. He was stuck here; he was going to have to learn to live with it, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.

He got up, after a while, and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. His almost-empty backpack was where he'd left it after taking out the clothing it had held, the canvas-covered shield underneath it. He lifted out the backpack first, easing himself down to sit on the floor by the chest, and beginning digging through the detritus inside of it. Most of it just trash; a half-empty bottle of oil and a whetstone that he no longer possessed a blade to sharpen with. A shaving brush with well-worn bristles and his old razor, and a lump of slowly hardening soap in a fold of leather, none as good as the shaving things he'd been supplied with here. A holey sock missing its mate and lumpy with his own bad attempts at darning.

Lumpier than he'd have expected, actually, and he slid his hand into it, remembering only as his fingertips touched something smooth and cold in the toe why he'd hung onto it. He upended it, carefully withdrawing his hand, staring at the treasure it had hidden; a small statuette, carved of bone or perhaps tusk, he wasn't sure which, in the shape of a robed woman. Old work; Alamarri or Avvar, and crudely but beautifully made, the face suggested by just a few fine cuts in the smooth oval of face. The robe had a faint pattern, almost worn away from years of handling – his, and those who'd owned it before him – only remaining visible because of some darker substance that had been rubbed into the fine grooves, leaving a faint stain that lingered even where the grooves themselves had been worn away. One of a number of little gifts Solona had given him, in their months together, and the only one he'd kept, the others being sold or traded one by one, for passage across the sea, for money to rent a room and pay for food and drink. Mostly drink. Only this one was left now, kept because it reminded him of her; the robed woman he had loved. Whom he still loved, even though she was dead and gone.

He sat and stared at the little figure held in his cupped hands for a long time, then set it down beside his knee, and kept looking through the pack. Not much else of value in there, beyond the old cracked and re-glued amulet of his mother's that he could have sworn he'd thrown away. He put that down by the statuette as well, eventually tossing the now-empty backpack back into the chest, a pile of things to one side of him that was stuff to discard, and just a few items to keep on the other.

He leaned one arm on the edge of the chest, reaching in to gently set fingertips to the covered shield. Duncan's shield; another gift from Solona. The one thing he'd known he could never part with, no matter how desperate for money he was. His face twisted in a sour expression. What would Duncan think of him, if he could see him now? Not very blighted much, he was sadly sure. A deserter, a drunk, someone who had run rather than remaining to confront his highest responsibility. A failure.

He closed the trunk, leaving the shield where it was, picking up the handful of things he meant to keep, moving around the room and putting them away. The amulet went onto the small table beside the bed; the little statue he took out to his study, and stood it on the sill of the window by his desk, where he could see it every time he looked up from his work. He returned and fetched the remaining things, wrapping them all up in the worn-thin and much-patched old nightshirt that had been one of the things remaining in the pack, and left the bundle by the door to his room to take out and get rid of the next day.

It was dark now, not late, but late enough, and he changed into his nightshirt, new as almost everything he owned now was new, and crawled into bed, lying there staring at the faint gleam of the amulet on the table nearby. After a while he sat up and moved it, dropping it into the shallow drawer underneath the table top. With it out of sight, he was finally able to sleep.


	15. A Case of Bad Luck

Loghain leaned back against the wall, mostly watching two of Sigrun's wardens sparring, but keeping half an eye on Alistair as well. The boy was looking noticeably better than when he'd first arrived at the Keep; no long pale and trembling and sickly-looking. He was moving better as well, though he had, in Loghain's expert opinion, rather a long way to go yet before he could be considered to be back in proper fighting condition.

He was pleased to note that Alistair was also doing his exercises for longer than the minimum time he'd been instructed to; his hour had been over for some time now, but the boy was still standing by one of the practise dummies, methodically bashing and slashing at it with his practise weapons, after having spent a goodly time earlier in simpler exercises.

Finally Loghain straightened up, and walked to that side of the yard. "Stop," he said.

Alistair did so, turning and looking questioningly at him, the boy's chest heaving for breath from his exertion.

"Rest a moment; I think it's time for me to test you again," Loghain said, then went over to the storage shed and selected a shield and practise sword for himself, taking enough time about it that Alistair had caught his breath again by the time he returned. They moved out into the yard, and went on guard, circling a little before engaging.

Loghain let the boy take a few blows at him this time, judging his progress. He'd been good, once – but he'd been too long out of practise, and it showed, even with the exercises he'd been doing. "You're holding your shield too low," Loghain pointed out, as he jabbed toward Alistair's exposed shoulder, slowly enough that the boy was able to interpose his shield in time to block it. "And you're too slow with your sword."

Alistair scowled, and stepped up his attack; but clearly he was letting his anger rule him, as his defence suffered as a result. Loghain frowned, hit the boy's sword out of line, and gave a quick series of bashes with his shield that sent Alistair staggering backwards and then over onto his back on the ground. Loghain shook his head. "Keep up your exercises," he said. "You've a long way to go yet. Enough for today though; go have your breakfast."

Alistair said nothing, simply climbed back to his feet and limped off to put away his practise gear, Loghain following along behind as he stripped the shield off his own arm. He handed sword and shield to Alistair to put away, then went back over to where Gwill and Tisha had just finished their match. "You're getting better," he said approvingly to the elf. She sniffed and turned away, walking off to put her practise blades away.

Gwill grinned. "Still doesn't think much of you."

"Who? Alistair, or Tisha?"

"Both of them, I'm thinking," Gwill said, and shook his head. "You seem to surround yourself with people who don't much care for you."

Loghain snorted. "I don't need them to like me. They just have to follow my orders."

Gwill shrugged. "Best if you can count on them to follow orders without wanting to stick a knife in your back at the same time," he pointed out, then walked off to put away his own practise weapons.

Loghain smiled crookedly. Gwill had a point. Still, there was little he could do about the hostile attitudes of some of his wardens; not in the short term, anyway. He'd just have to hope that in the long term he could sway them to a more amenable viewpoint. Though that would be hard with Alistair, and likely near-impossible with Tisha. If only he had more people who were Grey Wardens by choice, not necessity; but the majority of his wardens were people who'd had no choice but attempt the joining, or die to the taint. And most of the few exceptions – Edrick, for example – had been conscripted.

Really, the only volunteers he had right now were Sigrun, Oghren, Gwill, and Kedar. Well, and Velanna, he supposed, though he'd never particularly trusted her reasons for volunteering, and wouldn't be surprised to wake up some day to find she'd vanished off in search of her sister. How she could believe that the woman was still alive, after seeing what condition she was in the last time they'd caught sight of her... he shook his head, then discarded the chain of thought.

He also wasn't entirely sure if Kedar had volunteered, or _been_ volunteered. He was simply the mage that had been supplied by the Fereldan Circle when Loghain had demanded a replacement for the missing Anders. A demand he'd made it clear he expected to be filled, when templars had so clearly been involved in the mage's disappearance and presumed death. The Rivain mage was at least well-skilled, had survived his joining, followed orders promptly, and worked well with others. He could do far worse.

Thought of the mage seemed to conjure him; he had no sooner entered the keep when he encountered the man. Kedar smiled broadly, showing off the sapphire-set gold tooth that matched the line of studs along the edge of his right ear. "Ser Loghain," he said, giving Loghain a polite bow of the head, though only a shallow one; the closest the ex-noble could bring himself to treating his commander casually. "A moment, if you please."

"Yes, Kedar?"

"Jowan asked if I could check on the recovery of your squire while he was away, this Alistair. Could you introduce me to him so that I may do so?"

"Of course. He's at breakfast right now, but he'll be returning to his rooms shortly. Have you breakfasted yet? You could join me if you wish, and I'll introduce you when he arrives."

Kedar's smile widened. "Would this breakfast be at the chess table in your quarters?"

Loghain smiled slightly. "If you wish. Though I dislike losing battles so early in the day."

"Then I accept. I will give you an advantage if you like."

Loghain snorted. "You'll beat me anyway. And real enemies rarely give their opponents any advantage. I'll either learn to beat you without one, or I won't."

Kedar grinned, and the two men headed upstairs to Loghain's quarters, only pausing long enough for Loghain to send a servant off to fetch breakfast up to them.

* * *

Alistair was still feeling grumpy over the outcome of his latest spar with Loghain when he returned to their rooms after breakfast. When he walked into the sitting room and found Loghain there at the chess table, playing against a dark-skinned man he recognized as the mage member of Sigrun's team, he found himself wishing once again that he was housed somewhere else in the building, and didn't have to pass through Loghain's rooms to reach his own. He lengthened his stride, wanting only to get out of Loghain's presence as quickly as possible.

"Alistair," Loghain called, turning in his seat and resting one arm on the back of it. "A moment, please."

He stopped, hands clenching as he bit back a sigh. "Yes, ser?" he asked as neutrally as he could, then reluctantly walked a few steps closer to the seated pair, eyeing the mage curiously. The mage was clearly from Rivain, with the tattoos and piercings that were usually marks of high rank there. He had a line of sapphire-set studs in the edge of his right ear, the stones arranged in order by hue, from a clear pale blue at the top down to a dark, nearly opaque stone. He also had a thick gold hoop threaded through each lobe, and a small gold ring set in his left nostril.

"Kedar, allow me to introduce you to my squire, Alistair Theirin," Loghain said, his voice and manner suddenly very formal. "Alistair, this is Kedar Salazier, Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Mages. Jowan has asked him to keep an eye on your health during your recovery, while he's away. Kedar needs to examine you."

"Oh. When?" Alistair asked warily.

"Now would be good, I suspect," Loghain said, and gave Kedar an enquiring look.

The mage nodded. "Now would be acceptable," he agreed, then smiled widely at Loghain, revealing a gold canine tooth. "Though I am sure you suggest it only to prevent me from trouncing you at chess a second time."

"Once in a morning is enough," Loghain agreed. "And I have business to tend to. Good day, Kedar. Alistair, I'll see you at lunch," he said, then rose, nodded politely to Kedar, and left.

Alistair felt annoyed that his own opinion in the matter had not been asked for, but he was hardly in any position to object. "All right," he said, turning back to the mage. "What do you need?"

"We should move somewhere more private first of all," Kedar said. "You will need to partially disrobe before I can properly examine you."

"My rooms, then," Alistair said, and this time didn't bother keeping back his unhappy sigh. Kedar made no comment, simply rose to his feet and followed Alistair to his room. "Just how undressed do you mean by _partially_ , anyway?"

Kedar chuckled, moving to the side to lean one hip on Alistair's desk, his arms folded across his chest. "Just your shirt. You may keep your modesty."

"Oh, good," Alistair said dryly, and stripped off his padded gambeson, then hung it neatly over the back of his chair. "Now what?"

"Just stand there and breath normally," Kedar said, straightening up again, then stepped closer to Alistair, studying him carefully as he paced a slow circle around him. "Your colour is good, at least," he said at the end of the circuit. "You do not have the yellow tone that could indicate that you've managed to harm yourself through overmuch drinking, and the pallor you had when I first saw you seems to have gone. Does this hurt?" he asked, and jabbed his thumb hard against Alistair's right side. "Any tenderness?"

Alistair flinched away. "Ow! No, not really. Did you have to do that so hard?"

Kedar looked amused. "I must touch you for a little while," he warned, before moving around back of Alistair, and setting one hand against the small of his back, and the other where he'd poked him. Alistair felt the tingle of active magic, and automatically tensed as old habits kicked in. Kedar snorted, but otherwise ignored his reaction. He moved around him, touching and palpating him in several places – all well above the waist, Alistair was relieved to note – and then leaned down and pressed one ear to Alistair's chest, listening for a little while before straightening, a satisfied look on his face.

"You are in reasonably good condition, it would seem. Do you suffer from any headaches, nausea, dizziness, tiredness...?"

"I was having headaches and nausea at first, but Jowan gave me some potions for them, and once those ran out I wasn't having problems any more."

Kedar nodded, looking satisfied. "Any trouble sleeping? Tremors?" And then, as Alistair flushed with annoyance at the questioning, he grinned, gold tooth showing again. "Irritability?"

Alistair snorted. "Some. But I'd say that was to be expected, the way I was kidnapped and dragged back here. I certainly didn't _want_ to come here!"

Kedar shrugged. "Perhaps. But it is one of a number of possible symptoms when one is withdrawing from an excess of drinking. And the other things I asked about?"

Alistair shrugged. "I have trouble getting to sleep most nights, but that's been true for years. No tremors. Not now, anyway... I was having those at first too," he added, flushing again, with shame this time.

Kedar nodded again. "If the tremors return, or you find yourself feeling irrationally angry, come see me. And I will mix a tea for you to take in the evenings that will help you to sleep. Good rest is important while you are recovering, as is eating properly. Do you have any problem with loss of appetite?"

"No. If anything I'm hungrier than I've felt in a while. Can I put my clothes back on now?"

"Yes, go ahead," Kedar said.

Alistair picked up the heavy shirt and shook it out, then paused after putting his arms into the sleeves, and looked questioningly at Kedar. "How come you're a member of the Ferelden Circle, and not the Rivain one? I thought the Rivaini kept their mages to themselves?"

Kedar made a face, and waited until Alistair had pulled his gambeson on over his head before speaking. "A case of bad luck. You know that mages manifest their powers at different ages?"

Alistair nodded. "I was trained as a templar before being conscripted into the Grey Wardens, so yes, I'm aware. Let me guess - you were already an adult when your powers showed up?"

"Yes. Which would have been no trouble if I'd been home in Rivain when it occurred, but unfortunately for me I was on a visit to Orlais at the time."

Alistair winced. "Ouch."

"Ouch, indeed. There was of course no question of the Orlesians allowing me to return home; they are aware that we are far less strict with magic users in Rivain than they are, as few of us follow this Andraste of yours, or the Maker, and we pay no more heed than we must to your chantry's teachings and laws. The Orlesian chantry is increasingly unhappy about this. So I was incarcerated in the Montsimmard circle for several years, where they tried to convert me into a good little Andrastrian; they failed, of course. I might be there yet, but after the Ferelden Circle was largely wiped out during the Blight Year there was a redistribution of mages from more crowded Circles to here, and I managed to arrange to have my name included on the list."

"You bribed someone?" Alistair asked, startled.

Kedar grinned. "Of course. What used having a well-connected and wealthy family and not making use of such resources? So I ended up here, and then some months ago when Arl Loghain sent to the tower seeking a new mage, I decided I liked the sound of becoming a Grey Warden. It would remove me from the chantry's control, and who know, perhaps some day I can manage to be transferred to the Grey Wardens of Rivain, and finally return home again."

"It didn't bother you that you might die in the Joining?" Alistair asked, surprised.

Kedar smiled crookedly. "You forget, I am thinking, that _that_ particular detail is usually not shared with recruits until _after_ they have joined. Had I known... I would likely have tried anyway. Better a fast death in the Joining than remaining a prisoner of your chantry for the rest of my life. Anyway, I shall be about my business; I will send you a packet of the tea before this evening. One small spoonful of the mixture brewed strongly, shortly before you are due to go to bed."

Alistair nodded. "Thank you," he remembered to say, as he saw the mage out of his rooms.

As soon as the door was closed behind Kedar he headed to his bedroom, already taking the gambeson back off again. He was still in need of a bath and a change of clothes before he settled in to his studies for the morning. And then more time to be spent in Loghain's company. The thought of which made him wish very much that he had a drink. Or two. Or three.


	16. A Soldier's Luck

Mistress Woolsey looked cautiously pleased as she looked over the accounting exercise she'd had Alistair perform, her own test of his skill level entirely independent of all the testing Loghain had already put him through. "You at least seem to understand the basics reasonably well," she said. "Which is more than I can say for most apprentices that cross my path. Not that you're my apprentice, of course, but... anyway. Chantry trained?"

"Yes ma'am."

Mistress Woolsey nodded approvingly. "You write a decent plain hand. Loghain mentioned he wanted your penmanship improved. And training in proper letter-writing. Did you learn any of that in the Chantry?"

Alistair shook his head. "We'd only just started on penmanship before I was changed to Templar training. I never developed much of a hand. Letters... we mostly did copy-work, not composing."

"Hrmmm. Write a few sentences for me," she said, sliding a scrap piece of parchment across the desk to him. Alistair picked up the pen and dipped it, tapping it lightly against the rim of the ink well to remove any excess, then laboriously wrote out a couple lines of the Chant, chewing on his lip as he concentrated, trying to remember the changed shapes of the letter, and when to press harder or lighter, and where all the tails were supposed to go. He slid it back when he was done. Mistress Woolsey looked it over, face expressionless, her only comment a "We'll need to work on that."

Once she was done with him he went back to his rooms, loaded down with books to read, a blank ledger to practise mathematics and accounting in, and several lengthy samples of writing in Mistress Woolsey's best hand that he was to copy out on scrap parchment, also provided.

It seemed to be almost no time at all between when Alistair had very little to do each day and when he suddenly found himself with far too much, lessons multiplying like mushrooms in a damp wood. Mathematics, accounting and penmanship with Mistress Woolsey. Geography, genealogy, and heraldry with Seneschal Varel. Tactics, strategy, and supply from Captain Garevel. History, manners and etiquette from Sister Keri, the priest who looked after the Keep's little chapel, separate from the larger Chantry down in the village which had a proper Revered Mother. And all of them from Loghain, to one degree or another, as well as law. The laws of Ferelden, the rules the army followed, and those of the Grey Wardens. Dwarven law, too, and what little was known of Dalish thoughts on such matters.

What little free time he'd had disappeared, swallowed up in studies. And when he wasn't studying, he was practising; sword and shield mostly, and sometimes sword alone, which never failed to leave him feeling off-balance and uneasy. He seemed to rush through his days full-tilt, busy from the moment he woke up in the morning until he fell back into bed each night, exhausted.

Sigrun's patrol went out. Oghren's returned, bringing along a dwarf from Kal'Hirol who'd managed to get himself tainted while exploring. Sadly he didn't survive his joining. Oghren's patrol went out again a week later; Nathaniel's was still not back, but also not expected back quite yet. The keep seemed peculiarly empty when the only Grey Wardens on hand were Loghain and Alistair, even though it swarmed at all times with guards and servants at work, with villagers and townspeople and Banns come to see their Arl.

Wade finally finished work on Alistair's armour. It felt very strange to dress in warden blue-and-silver again. Doubly so when it was newly made armour, all stiff from never having been worn, and not the well-worn, refitted hand-me-downs which had been all the Fereldan wardens had available when he'd joined.

Nathaniel's group was late. Sigrun's patrol returned again, and in their wake, a messenger who'd come by ship all the way from Gwaren, with word from Nathaniel. Somewhere near Gwaren he'd found a place where a sinkhole had opened a route into the Deep Roads, and signs of darkspawn nearby. He planned to take his patrol and descend into it after restocking supplies in Gwaren, and would send back further word when they could. The messenger could tell them nothing more; the patrol had set off from Gwaren back to where they'd seen the sinkhole mere hours before his ship had sailed. They might already be out, and on their way back; they might still be wandering around in the Deep Roads; they might be dead.

Loghain's mood turned foul, perhaps understandably so, with a quarter of his wardens vanished down a hole somewhere in the Southron Hills. Alistair's mood, never cheerful since being dragged back from the Free Marches, suffered as a result as well.

* * *

Alistair looked around the crowded refectory and frowned. Oghren's group had arrived back again the night before, after a patrol that had taken them all the way past the northern end of Lake Calenhad and up into the mountains to the gates of Orzammar, and then back again. Sigrun's group was still here as well, Loghain having decided to hold all the wardens here until he'd had further word from the south; there was a possibility that the entire command would be marched south to investigate this sink hole Nathaniel's patrol had found, if it proved to be more than his group alone could handle.

Alistair found a seat at the long end of a table crowded with wardens, all talking animatedly about what little they knew from the south – almost nothing, really – and speculating on what might have been found there. He found himself seated beside Cale, with Gwill and the elf, Tisha, across from him, the chin of Gwill's big red brindle mabari Rosey resting on the table between the pair. Rosey wasn't exactly begging, but she silently rolled her eyes from person to person, and bits of food were appearing from those around her with amusing regularity.

Not that Alistair was in the least immune to her charm himself. Even if he hadn't spent time as a dog-boy while in Arl Eamon's employ, he was Fereldan; he liked dogs as much as most of his countrymen did, which is to say very much indeed. More than a few bites of his steak ended up going the dog's way over the course of the meal, and he was delighted when she came around the end of the table and allowed him to scratch her ears.

"She likes you," Gwill said, sounding amused.

"She's a beautiful girl," Alistair said appreciatively, then looked curiously at Gwill. The man had an accent – faint, but definitely Orlesian. "How'd you get her?"

Gwill grinned. "Luck. Sheer blind luck. My squad-mates always used to joke about I could fall into a cesspit and come up clutching a handful of gold and smelling of roses. I suppose they were right, in a sense, since I was taking cover behind a manure pile in a burnt-out farmyard when I found her. She was just a puppy then, and starving. Started whining when she saw me, so I had to feed her something to shut her up or the Teryn's solders might have found me. Well, I would have fed her anyway, after all I could hardly leave the poor thing to starve there. So I've been her human ever since."

"So was it the saying you named her after, or her coat colour?" Alistair asked, ruffling the mabari's ears again.

Gwill grinned again. "Both, of course."

Alistair tilted his head, thinking about the story Gwill had just told. "The Teryn's soldiers were after you? When was this then?"

"During the civil war, in the Blight Year," Gwill said.

"He fought on both sides of it," Cale chipped in, sounding amused.

"What? Really?"

Gwill laughed. "Yes, really. See, I was in the army for a few years. Which mostly just involved guard duty and a lot of drilling and practise until Ostagar. I was there, you know. My luck was running strong that day, let me tell you, though I thought it was bad luck at the time. See, _originally_ I was supposed to be one of the men waiting up in the tower to light the beacon. Nice light duty, I thought. Only my tent-mate decided to try and desert the night before – no stomach for real battle, not after he'd seen the darkspawn corpses one of the patrols hauled back, or the men sickening who'd been tainted by them. I didn't know he was going to try something that stupid; I slept right through it. But he was my tent-mate, and the captain didn't believe I couldn't have known nothing at all about it. He couldn't exactly punish me since I hadn't done nothing wrong, but he decided he'd like me where he could keep an eye on me. So I was off Tower duty and stuck in the reserve group off in the woods instead."

"So when Loghain retreated, you survived," Alistair said, voice a touch grim.

"Blighted right I did. And was thanking my lucky stars the whole way back to Denerim that I wasn't one of the poor bastards up in the tower; none of them ever made it back from Ostagar. Or that tent-mate of mine; last I saw of him he was sitting in a cage waiting for judgement still. I doubt the darkspawn treated him very kindly."

"But then you were on the opposite side in the civil war?" Alistair asked.

"Yeah. Some funny things happened after we got back from Ostagar; funny as in unpleasant, not as in laughable. Like there was a few people who'd begun questioning why Loghain had retreated. Most of us just laughed that off, I mean, what else was he to do? But when people who'd questioned started disappearing? Maybe there was something to what they and the rebel banns were saying after all. It made you think, anyway. And then I started getting worried because of my parents. They were both Orlesian originally, you see – came to Ferelden with their Lord, stayed here after he went back to Orlais during the rebellion. Started a little tea-shop together in Amaranthine, which my mother still runs. But Loghain's always disliked Orlesians, and while my ancestry had never been a problem before, I started thinking it might be now. One of the soldiers who disappeared, he was of Orlesian parents too, you see, and had never said a thing about Ostagar, or disappearances, or anything. So I decided maybe I'd better make myself scarce before someone else decided to _make_ me scarce."

Alistair frowned. "So you went over to the other side?"

Gwill grinned, then shrugged. "I hadn't intended to, but there's only so many directions you can go when you leave Denerim. South and west were out, between the darkspawn and the rebels, so I decided to head north and go see my mother in Amaranthine. Only I never got there; a squad of soldiers crossed on my trail and my luck was bad for once – one knew my face, and knew I must be a deserter, and there was a nice little reward for such if they brought me back in. So I ended up heading west into the Bannorn hoping to lose them. Which is when I found my girl," Gwill added, smiling fondly at Rosey and reaching out to scratch her neck. "I was cornered, and thinking I was about to end up dead or disappeared after all, and then a group of rebels came along, and had a nice little fight with the Teryn's men and drove them off. And, seeing that the Teryn's men were after me, they assumed I was on their side. I'd had enough of being chased by soldiers by then, so I was hardly going to disillusion them. Especially when by that point I was feeling pretty damned rebellious myself. Thankfully the civil war ended just afterwards, without me ever having to go up against any of my old comrades. And seeing as my old squad was among those left behind to garrison the walls of Denerim when most of the army headed to Redcliffe... well, maybe my luck was still working after all," Gwill finished grimly.

"And now you're a Grey Warden, and Loghain is your commander again. How'd that happen?"

"I finally made it to Amaranthine to see my mother, a few months after the Battle of Denerim. Reached the city just in time to be there for the darkspawn invasion."

"Oh. Let me guess... you got tainted?"

Gwill laughed. "No, my usual luck held. Came through the whole thing without a scratch on me, though my mother's tea shop was a wreck. I was still there helping her with the rebuilding when I heard Loghain was looking for more wardens. It sounded interesting work, and I trust him as a commander, which I can't say about everyone I've ever served under. And having seen what the darkspawn were like... well, I was willing to sign up."

Alistair frowned. "But it was his men after you... and the disappearances..."

Gwill made a face. "Only a fool could have been behind all those men vanishing; it wasn't the sort of thing that could be kept secret, and it was certainly terrible for morale. I wasn't the only man who deserted as a result of it all. Commander Loghain is many things, but he's rarely a fool."

Alistair's frown deepened. He found himself remembering the words of that noble they'd found being tortured in the basement of Arl Howe's estate; that he's been investigating the disappearance of his milk-brother when he himself was 'disappeared', and ended up in Howe's hands. Alistair had always assumed that Loghain had been aware of and complicit in such disappearances and torture. But... he couldn't think of anything that definitely tied the man to them, other than Howe being his lackey. And maybe Gwill was right about it being something only a fool would do; it had certainly cost Loghain considerable support in the Landsmeet, in the end.

Gwill was still talking, not having noticed Alistair's brief inattention. "No, love him or loathe him, Loghain is a good commander to have over you. You can at least be fairly sure that if he spends you, it'll be because it needs doing, not like some of these damned banns and arls who have less military experience than my big toe does."

"Spends you?" Alistair asked, puzzled.

"Sends you into something you're likely not coming back from," Cale spoke up, then paused to wipe his mouth clean with a napkin. "A good general spends his men like a miser spends his coppers; with care and forethought, and begrudges every one. A bad one... well, it's not _their_ blood they're shedding, is it?"

"Though Loghain's led from the front as often as from the rear," Gwill said, the approval obvious in his voice.

Tisha suddenly slammed her cutlery to the table, a scowl on her face, then rose and stalked off. Gwill winced; Cale muttered a quiet "Ouch".

"She's got more reason than most to hate Loghain," Gwill explained quietly to Alistair's surprised look.

"City elf," Cale contributed, equally quietly. "Denerim alienage."

"Oh. Ouch," Alistair said, remembering a certain adventure he and Solona had been on there just prior to the Landsmeet. "Then what's she doing here?"

"Surviving, like most of us," Cale said bluntly, then shrugged. "Not my story to tell though."

"Just take it as a given that if she could put one of her knives between the Commander's ribs, she would," Gwill said, then rose to his feet. "I better go talk to her for a bit." He hurried off, his mabari trotting along behind him.

Cale rose as well. "I should be off too... we're running short of nails and Wade always has conniptions when he's expected to manufacture such plebeian items," Cale said, the grin on his face making it clear his last few words were quoting the other blacksmith.

Alistair snorted and nodded, and finished off the few bites of food on his plate. He wished he could linger, maybe talk to some other of the wardens while they were here... but Loghain would be expecting him in their rooms around now, he knew, and sighed and rose to his feet, and headed upstairs.


	17. Word from Gwaren

Loghain was in the sitting room, a low table pulled up before his chair with a map spread out on it. He held a sheet of parchment in hand – the letter from Nathaniel, Alistair recognized from having seen it several times before – and was pouring over the map and muttering to himself, his little half-moon reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Still trying to figure out where the sinkhole must be, Alistair guessed, having heard Loghain complain more than once about Nathaniel having failed to provide either a map or an accurate enough description of where it was in his single brief message.

Loghain peered over the top edge of his glasses at Alistair, then sighed and took them off, setting letter and glasses down on the map and gesturing for Alistair to take a seat nearby as he eased himself back to a more comfortable position in his own."Captain Garevel tells me he's satisfied with your progress so far in learning and understanding the rules of supply, but says your grasp of tactics is abysmal," he opened without any preface, and then proceeded to question Alistair for the next half hour on several of the points he'd found difficult to understand in that day's lesson. Finally he made a disgusted sound, and rose to his feet. "I think the problem is you can't visualize the problem properly," he said. "Come with me," he added, and stalked off, leading the way out his rooms and down a floor to where his offices were; his public office, as opposed to the private study that was part of his rooms.

His office was composed of several rooms, one that was his actual office, a smaller room for his clerk, and a very large meeting room that had almost as many books lining one wall of it as his sitting room upstairs did. There were also a lot of maps on the wall, of locations both within Ferelden and abroad. The middle of the room was taken up by both a small meeting table, and a much larger table, of a kind Alistair had heard of but never seen. He stopped to stare, fascinated. It was like a map of the entire Arling, only instead of being made of ink or paint it was a sculpted surface of sand and clay, with bits of broken glass or glazed tile marking the rivers and the coastal seas, cleverly graded by colour to indicate the depths. There was tufts of dyed moss for forests, paths of dyed sand to mark the roads, and little clay models scattered around to indicate the location of major estates, with little flag-topped pins stuck into the landscape to indicate points of apparent interest. "This is a sand table, isn't it?" he asked after a couple of minutes of studying it. "I've heard of them..."

"Yes, it is," Loghain said, sounding amused, and Alistair looked up from it to see that Loghain was patiently waiting him at the other end of the room, standing beside a much smaller table. "Come here," Loghain said, and turned to lean over the table he was at, a stick in hand.

Alistair reached his side in time to see that he was smoothing over the sand in a much smaller sand table, one filled only with plain sand and just a couple of paces wide on each side. He sprinkled water over it to dampen it when he was done, then swiftly shaped the damp sand into a line of hills at one side of the box, overlooking a flat area split by a meandering stream.

"All right. Hills. Steam. Meadow. Boggy areas here, here, and here," Loghain explained, dappling the sand with his fingertips to indicate the swampy bits. He pulled open a drawer in the table, and pulled out a handful of little figurines; just simple bits of wood, like a tiny clothes-peg without a split carved in it, the lower end being shaped to a point instead. The little rounded bead on the top ends were mostly plain wood, but some had been dipped in dye to colour them.

"Footmen here," Loghain said, sticking a row of plain pegs into the sand, in a doubled row stretching from the stream to the base of the hills. "Archers here." Red-marked pegs scattered in the heights. "A small force of mounted men in reserve, over here." More pegs, marked with blue this time. He straightened, and handed Alistair a handful of pegs, mostly bare or red, and only two blue. "You're advancing up the meadow, along the stream. That means from _that_ end," he added, pointing. "Tell me what you'd do when you spotted the footsoldiers."

Alistair looked warily at the layout. "Do I know about the archers or riders yet?"

"A scout has brought you word of the archers."

Two hours later, they were still moving little pegs around, and Alistair had lost all track of time. So, it seemed, had Loghain. It wasn't until a servant knocked on the door, to announce that another messenger had just arrived from Gwaren, that they realized how late it was. "With me," Loghain commanded Alistair, after telling the servant to bring the messenger to his office. "That last effort likely would have worked," he added as they left the sand table. "Though I think you'd have lost more men than was necessary. I managed to only lose five, but only because I knew where the swampy spots were and got his horses bogged down. Ask Garevel to explain how to you tomorrow, I don't have the time now."

Nor did they, the pair of them already being at the door to Loghain's office. Loghain moved to take his seat behind the desk, and pointed at a corner of the room. "Wait there. _Quietly_."

The servant returned with the messenger almost immediately. A man in Gwaren livery, looking tired and travel-stained. Loghain's first question was if the man had eaten yet, and he quickly ordered the servant off again to fetch food and drink for the messenger when the man answered in the negative. Only then did Loghain ask about the message itself, which the messenger promptly pulled out of his satchel and handed over. "Have a seat, I may have questions," Loghain told the man even as he inspected and then broke the seal, having first to take another pair of reading-glasses out of his desk drawer.

Alistair could see over his shoulder from where he stood; the message was several pages of densely-packed writing, with a couple of small crudely-drawn maps on the last page. Loghain said nothing while reading it, though he snorted and made little interested or peeved noises more than once before setting it down on the desk before him and turning his attention back to the messenger, who was busily eating a large sandwich the servant had brought him.

"You left Gwaren a week and a half ago?" he asked. The messenger nodded, and hastily swallowed his bite of bread and meat.

"Hrmm. You made good time then," he said approvingly.

The man nodded. "The winds were with us all the way," he said.

"All right. Nathaniel mentioned a joining. Do you know any of the men involved?"

"Aye, ser... Wilf, the miller's son, is one of them."

"I remember him," Loghain said, nodding. "A bit simple, but a good strong man. Who else?"

The messenger nodded and continued. "Gabe, a hunter; you wouldn't know him, ser, he moved to Gwaren only three years ago. His wife Bekka, also a hunter – she's damned good with a bow. Assuming she recovers fine, anyway, her arm was badly broken, and she's pretty broken up about things. Neither of the children made it out..."

Loghain frowned, looking concerned and sitting up straighter, and interrupted the man. "Children? Nathaniel said nothing about children in his report."

The man grimaced. "Was two of 'em – a boy and a girl. Almost adults, not little ones. It was a real mess, from what I've heard. The boy – Gabe's son – was courting the girl, only her family didn't approve of _his_ family, them being newcomers and not landed. So they went off on a walk in the woods together, like kids that age will. And got snatched by darkspawn. Wilf likes to wander, and heard the shouts and followed them far enough to see the pair being dragged off. He may be simple but he's not stupid, he knew the darkspawn were more than he could handle, even as big as he is, so he went to the boy's dad and told him what happened, and the bunch of them set out to rescue the kids; Wilf and the couple and some other hunters all from the same camp."

Loghain swore darkly. "The fools," he said, sounding tired.

"Yeah, well, they're parents," the messenger said, and shrugged. "There was a younger boy at the camp too, but they were smart enough to send him into town to spread the word and look for help. He managed to get himself lost on the way though, so it was a couple of days later before he managed to find his way in. Anyway, before then your wardens had already come along and found the signs of darkspawn, and the next day went in, not even knowing there was people in there. They found them and rescued the lot, those that were still alive anyway. The hunters were cornered in a little side-cave, half of them dead already, and your wardens got them out and then went back in after the two kids. It was too late by then though, the pair of them were already dead. Your warden says he had his mage burn the bodies properly, it being too dangerous to try and bring them out, and he brought out some of the ashes for the two families."

Loghain nodded, looking tired. "An ugly story."

"Aye, that it is," the messenger agreed sombrely. "And would have been worse, if your wardens hadn't come along in time. Anyway, Wilf and all the rescued hunters were starting to show signs of Blight sickness by then. So your warden explained to everyone that their only hope of recovering was to join the Grey Wardens, and took them all off overnight. A few of them died anyway; too far gone already I suppose, so there's just Wilf and the married pair and one of the hunters left."

Loghain nodded. "Well, I can certainly see why Nathaniel wants to remain there for a little while longer before returning north again. I'll be sending you back south with a message and orders for him and the new wardens, and likely some more wardens as well, since it sounds like there's still further clean-up to be done before the area is safe again. They'll have to go back in and kill all the darkspawn in the area, and then we'll have to try and seal the entrances that have opened. Which may require hiring some dwarven engineers to go down and collapse the tunnels, if local labour isn't enough for it. Though that's for myself and the Teryna of Gwaren to sort out, no worry of yours," he told the messenger with a tired smile. "All right, I have no further questions at the moment, you can go. It won't be until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest that I'm ready to send you back, and more likely the next day."

The messenger nodded and rose to his feet, picking up his half-eaten sandwich and mug of ale before leaving the room.

Loghain seemed to have forgotten Alistair's presence. He sighed and leaned forward, his face in his hands and shoulders slumped.

"Damnation," he said, very quietly.

Alistair stood frozen for a long moment, then hesitantly cleared his throat. Loghain sighed and sat back in his chair, turning his head to glance Alistair's way. He looked very old and tired. "Go fetch Oghren and Sigrun for me, please. Tell them I've heard from Nathaniel and I've said it's a mess, but nothing else. And then you're free to do whatever you want with what remains of the evening. Only one thing – no spreading rumours," he said, voice going stern for a moment. "I'll have to tell everyone soon enough, but that's my job, not yours."

"Yes, ser," Alistair said quietly, and hurried off.

He went to his room after locating the two dwarves, and found himself sitting silently at his own desk, just sitting there and looking at the little figurine perched nearby, and thinking of two terrified kids in the hands of darkspawn. An ugly story indeed, and likely the reality of it a far uglier story than the messenger knew to tell.


	18. The Good Shem

It was the first time Alistair had gone to Loghain's room to assist him with arming in the morning, and found him still in bed rather than already up and half-dressed. He hesitated, wondering what he should do – Loghain's instructions had never covered this possibility – then took a few steps closer to the bed, and was startled by the speed with which Loghain suddenly sat up, a dagger in one hand and a scowl on his face. Alistair froze, then Loghain blinked blearily at him and relaxed, spine slumping slightly.

"Oh. Morning already?" Loghain said, voice thick from sleep, and made the dagger disappear back under his pillow before rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Give the bell rope over there a double pull, would you," he said, waving at one corner of the room, then threw back the sheets and rose to his feet.

Alistair turned hastily away to do so, feeling embarrassed. The Commander apparently felt that his smalls were sufficient to wear for sleeping in. He was almost naked, apart from those and enough grizzled body hair to adequately coat a full-grown mabari. Alistair tugged on the rope, then stayed by it, unsure what to do.

"You might as well lay out my clothes for me while I shave," Loghain said. "In that clothes-press, to your left," he added, with just the faintest hint of what Alistair suspected might be _amusement_ in his voice.

Alistair stepped over to it, keeping his back resolutely turned, and was relieved to hear the door of Loghain's bathing chamber shut behind the man. He quickly found fresh smalls and folded pairs of stockings in the drawers in the base of the clothes-press, and a clean gambeson and quilted leggings hung neatly in the cabinet over top, and set them out on the bed. He wasn't sure what to do next, and stood uncertainty near the bed, waiting for Loghain to return.

When Loghain reappeared, it was clear that he'd taken time to do more than just shave. A cloud of soap-scented warm air accompanied him out of the bathing chamber, and he had a towel wrapped around his hips. Alistair knew he was blushing again, and quickly looked away.

"Maker, you're worse than a maiden aunt," Loghain said, making no effort to keep the amusement out of his voice this time. "Go check the sitting room, there should have been a pot of tea brought up by now. Fix me a cup and bring it back here. Fix yourself one, too."

Alistair gratefully hurried out of the room, and took his time in pouring out two mugs full and sweetening them with honey to his and Loghain's tastes – sweet and very sweet. He was relieved when he returned to find Loghain tightening the laces at the neck of his gambeson, and ready to be armed. He handed him the cup, which Loghain took a couple of large swallows from, grimacing slightly at the heat of it, before setting it aside. After that it was much like any morning, Alistair taking the pieces of Loghain's armour from their stand and helping him into them.

"No practice this morning," Loghain told him. "We have other things to do today." He picked up his half-empty mug, gesturing for Alistair to retrieve his own barely touched one, and led the way back to the sitting room. Servants were setting out a full breakfast in the little dining chamber adjacent to the sitting room; setting places for more than just the two of them, at that, so Alistair wasn't entirely surprised when the door opened and Sigrun bounced into the room, looking almost disgustingly awake and cheerful. Mistress Woolsey and Seneschal Varel arrived a minute later, followed not too long afterwards by Oghren and Captain Garevel.

"Fetch yourself some ink and paper," Loghain said to Alistair after having greeted everyone. "Take notes during breakfast; don't worry if you can't get it all down, Mistress Woolsey keeps our official minutes, but note-taking is a skill I'll want you to work on."

Alistair nodded, and hurried to his room and back to fetch the necessary items. By the time he returned the others were all taking seats already. He quickly took the remaining seat, setting out his paper and ink and pen by his plate. Not that he had much time to eat; trying to keep track of the conversation going on around him and take notes proved to be much more difficult than he'd imagined, though Mistress Woolsey seemed perfectly capable of taking notes, eating, and contributing her own fair share to the conversation without looking in the least ruffled.

Loghain, it seemed, planned to send Oghren's patrol south by ship to Gwaren to join up with Nathaniel. Which Oghren wasn't too thrilled about, Felsi being due to deliver their second child any day now and he having hoped to be on hand for it. But he reluctantly agreed that his team of people was better suited for the work that needed doing down south than Sigrun's was.

Some of the civilian servants at the keep – a pair of dwarven engineers trained in the use of mining explosives, and well-supplied with such – would accompany him, to oversee closing the tunnel entrances that the sink hole had opened up. Sigrun's patrol would remain at the keep, with Sigrun as Acting Warden-Commander in Loghain's absence. He wasn't planning to go to Gwaren himself – not yet, anyway, and not unless it proved necessary – but instead planned to go first of all to Denerim to report to Anora about the problem, since it was within her terynir.

"Alistair, you'll be accompanying me," he added in passing. "You can pack for both of us this afternoon, and we'll leave tomorrow morning. Plan on at least a one week absence. Have one of the servants check what you've selected to take before you pack it, they'll know if you've missed anything."

"Yes, ser," he answered; the only thing he could say, even if he did feel annoyed at the thought of having to go anywhere in Loghain's company. Much less to Denerim and into Queen Anora's presence. He'd heard a story once that her first reaction to hearing about his having gone missing was that she wanted him found, apprehended, and executed, to be sure he didn't end up at the head of a revolt against her. He didn't know if it was true or not... but he wouldn't put it past her.

There was other discussion, about what Captain Garevel and the rest could do to keep the Keep sufficiently prepared and vigilant in case trouble broke out elsewhere in Ferelden while most of the Grey Wardens had their attention focused on the far south. Once all that was sorted out the entire group of them went down to the main hall, where all the wardens and a number of other key local staff were in attendance. Loghain, the two senior wardens, and his senior staff took places on the dais at the front; Alistair found a place among the waiting wardens.

Loghain broke the news about events down south, and the planned response to them. He kept the explanation simple and straightforward, without dwelling on the uglier aspects of what had happened. Judging by the set faces around the room, the wardens all understood the parts he _wasn't_ saying in front of civilian witnesses. They were all very quiet by the time he finished, and when he dismissed them, Oghren's men headed off to see to their packing; they were to depart for Amaranthine directly after lunch, Loghain had said.

Alistair, meanwhile, found himself being rounded up and taken off by Mistress Woolsey, to review his notes. She had a few tips for him – such as only trying to get down the exact wording when it was important, and otherwise just note enough key parts down to be able to reconstruct generally what was said and agreed to later – but seemed very distracted and soon released him so that she could get back to her own duties. It was still a little over an hour yet until lunch, so Alistair went out to the practise yard in back and did his exercises for a while. He felt unsettled, and found it hard to concentrate. He kept thinking about those kids, and the hunters... the hunters had at least had some idea what they were getting into, and had known how to protect themselves, but those kids...

He felt sick, in the pit of his stomach. Grey Wardens were supposed to help prevent things like this from happening.

Maybe it wouldn't have made any difference, if he'd been here and doing his duty all along.

But maybe it would have.

* * *

Smalls and stockings for a week, plus two extra changes of each. Four pairs of leggings, from plain cloth to good enough for court – at least for Loghain, Alistair's own small wardrobe was not that varied – and shirts to match, along with a good coat for Loghain to attend court in. Boots of well-sewn oiled leather, to wear on the journey, and soft indoor shoes to wear at court. A warm rain-proofed cloak and gloves in case of inclement weather on the way. Supplies for shaving, for washing, for other personal care, for maintaining their mail and caring for their weapons. His shield – not the one from Duncan, but one drawn from the Keep's armoury instead – along with a sword and sword harness from the same source.

It made a surprisingly large pile on both their beds, but he was pleased that when he had the servant check that he'd thought of everything, the only change the man made was to say to also pack spare gambeson and quilted leggings as well, in case the set they were wearing under their armour got wet, and to say that he'd arrange for bedrolls, cooking supplies, and a two-man tent to be added to the load when it was put on their horses the next day, in case they had to overnight somewhere. "The Commander prefers to be prepared for anything," the servant said, before going off in search of horse packs and a travel chest for Alistair to put everything away in.

The chest and packs were left piled up by the door of their rooms to be carried down and loaded in the morning. Alistair spent some time in sharpening and polishing his new sword, and thinking about the several swords he'd carried at Solona's side. He hadn't felt right taking them away with him when he'd left, apart from the rather plain longsword he's started out with, and had left all the rest of them on the weapon rack in the room Arl Eamon had given him at the estate. The old sword they'd pieced together in the Deep Roads, his father's sword that they'd recovered from Ostagar, the enchanted one from the ancient shade in Denerim that made a faint keening sound as it cut through the air, sharp as a thought... he wondered what had happened to them all. And doubted he'd ever know.

It was a very quiet supper that evening, everyone in a sober mood still from the news that morning, and quieter yet for all of Oghren's group having departed. The table that had been full of wardens the day before was almost empty now, Gwill and Rosey being elsewhere, Kedar sitting and talking earnestly with Mistress Woolsey, their heads together in a way that conveyed that they had no wish of interruptions. So it was just him and Tisha.

She was very pretty, in the way all elves were; fragile-looking, though he knew from past experience with elves that the look was deceptive. Besides, he'd seen her in the practice yard; she wasn't much more than a decently skilled beginner yet, as far as he could tell, but she knew enough of what she was doing to be dangerous, especially to non-wardens who would lack her advantages of unusual speed and stamina. Oh, sure, Zevran could still likely have disarmed her within seconds, but that was _Zevran_. Sudden death with a charming smile and a salacious quip. He was mildly startled to find himself missing the assassin, and wondering what had happened to him in the years since. Probably the Crows had caught up to him eventually, and without the aid of Solona and the others... he didn't like thinking about it.

"I remember you," Tisha suddenly said. "Though I doubt you remember me."

"Sorry, no, I don't," Alistair admitted. "Did I meet you in the alienage when Solona and I were there?"

"Sort of," she said, and looked away, down at her plate, hands tightening on her cutlery. When she spoke again, her voice was very low. "In the warehouse, when you killed Caladrius... I was one of the elves you all freed."

"Oh. There were a lot of you," he said, feeling uncomfortable that he didn't remember any of the faces, really – but he'd been so excited still from the fight, which had been difficult, and had required him to make considerable use of his Templar abilities before they'd been able to overpower and finally kill the blood mage.

"There were," she agreed softly, and glanced at him, just a brief flash of bright green eyes from behind dark red hair. "There should have a been a lot more. Over half the alienage was taken, you know. All sold off into slavery, apart from those Caladrius used up for his own magic," she added bitterly, and looked across the room to where Loghain was standing talking with Captain Garevel, as she did so the ball of her thumb stroking along the edge of the table knife in her hand as if she was wishing it had an edge. "My parents had been shipped out the week before. To Tevinter."

Alistair swallowed uncomfortably. "Um, so... how'd you end up here?" he asked cautiously.

"When the darkspawn came, I ran," she said softly, eyes still fixed on Loghain. "I knew how to swim; we'd lived in Highever alienage when I was younger, the water was clean enough for it there. So I jumped in the river, and escaped the city that way. Others tried the same; not all of them could swim. Even of those who could, not all of us made it out." She fell silent again, then carefully set her cutlery down and pushed her plate of food away. "After we got out, I decided to keep going; I didn't think staying near the city would be any safer than staying in it. So I headed away, to the northwest. I remember looking back, from a hilltop, when it was dark... the sky over the city was black with smoke and red from all the fires, and I could see the Archdemon, circling..."

She shivered, silent again, and bit her lip for a moment. "I turned away and kept walking. Even in the dark, I was too scared to stop. By morning I was lost, and sick... river water isn't good for you. Maybe out in the country it is, but not in Denerim. I lost track of time. It was days later and I was starving when I finally found a farm." She paused again, a thoughtful look on her face. "I was lucky. They didn't mind elves. And they needed help, having lost most of their workers to the war. So they took me in and fed me, and let me stay and get better. By the time I was well enough to work, we'd heard about what had happened in Denerim. So many dead, they didn't have enough wood to burn them all."

She looked down at the table again, at her hands set neatly on the edge of it. "I stayed and helped out over the fall harvest and through the winter and the spring planting, to pay them back for their help, but farming wasn't for me. So later in the spring I decided to set out for Amaranthine; the alienage there was even emptier than the one in Denerim, I'd heard, and the remaining nobles were desperate for well-trained elven servants. The pay being offered for a week's work was more than I'd have made in a month, back in Denerim, before... Anyway, there was no reason for me to go back. On the way, I stopped at Vigil's Keep for the night. They let me sleep in the stables, there weren't any horses here then. Just dusty straw. And I ended up trapped here by the darkspawn; they attacked just before dawn. So I spent a few days thinking I was going to die after all, and helping to cook food and look after the wounded and so on, and then it all ended. Only it wasn't over for me yet, because I'd been in contact with too many of the dying."

"You were blighted?"

"Yeah," she said, and shrugged. "So I took the Joining. It was that or die, and I didn't feel like dying just yet. Not after surviving so much already." She looked across the room again, to where Loghain was now seated at a table by himself, eating almost mechanically from a plate of food, his eyes unfocused in thought. When she spoke again, there was a darkness in her voice, a bitterness, that spoke more than her words did of just how deeply she hated the man. "And I keep hoping to have the chance to kill him, someday, for what he did to us. My grandfather had been one of the Night Elves, you know; he was always talking about what a good shem Teyrn Loghain was, how he treated the elves just like everyone else. I suppose its a kindness that he died before ever having to see his son sold into slavery by the man he'd praised so highly."

"Do you still hope that?" he asked hesitantly. "That you can kill him some day?"

She turned and looked at him. "Yes. Don't you?"

He looked at Loghain for a while himself, remembering Duncan and Cailan. Remembering Ostagar, both the battle there, and when he and Solona had returned, later. Remembering assassins and mercenaries trying to kill the two of them, not just once but over and over again. Remembering a basement full of torture chambers, and a cell in Fort Drakon, and most of all in that moment remembering a blood mage smiling silkily at Solona and offering her anything she'd like in exchange for his freedom, including _proof_ of Loghain's involvement, if she wanted it.

"Sometimes, yes," he admitted softly. "If you had the chance, right now... would you do it?"

She studied Loghain for a while again. "I don't know. Mostly I think yes, certainly, but other times... Other times I think I see glimpses of the man my grandfather used to talk about. The good shem." She rose to her feet. "Hating him is easier. But I know I'm not good enough to kill him yet; I've tried more than once," she said, then walked away.


	19. A Profitable Use of Time

They were up and on the road early the next morning, taking only enough time to eat a quick breakfast before setting out. Loghain rode his own gelding; for Alistair there was one of the better of the wardens' horses, an ill-favoured gelding with one blue eye and one brown, its rough-shorn coat as particoloured as its eyes. But it was a decent beast, even if ugly, and had a gentle stride. A pair of mules were laden down with their travel chest, packs, tent, bedrolls, and other gear.

He said a final few words to Sigrun and Varel, who'd come to see them off, then mounted up and led the way out of the gates, the mules following along behind and Alistair alongside. The boy was very quiet this morning, distracted by the effort of managing his mount. He had an adequate seat, though it was obvious from his manner that he wasn't used to riding. Loghain suspected he'd have saddle-sores by the end of the day, as he'd had on the trip from Amaranthine to the keep. He made a mental note to see that the boy started practising riding regularly, and wondered where he could fit it into Alistair's busy schedule.

He was, in fact, feeling cautiously pleased with how well Alistair had been applying himself to his studies so far. He didn't shirk off, or make excuses; if anything, he seemed to enjoy learning new things, and applied himself diligently. His only real fault, according to his various teachers, was that he was better at making sense of things that he could see before him than that he had to try to visualize from written descriptions. Witness how easily he'd made sense of those exercises in tactics the other night, once he'd been able to see them arranged before him on a sand-table instead of trying to picture it in his head.

That was going to need some work as well, obviously; the boy could hardly lug a sand-table around out in the field, and while maps usually made a decent substitute, it was best of all if one kept a map in one's own head for such things. A good portion of Loghain's own successes in the field over the years came about because he _did_ keep such a map in his head, a very detailed one of every part of Ferelden that he had ever set eyes on, walked across, or rode over. Or crawled through the mud of, swam the waters of, or cursed his way through the tunnels of, for that matter. A useful skill, and one he hoped the boy would prove capable of.

He waited until Alistair was looking more at ease with riding before clearing his throat to gain his attention. "We might as well make profitable use of our time today," he said. "Tell me, if you had to hold this section of road against a force of foot-soldiers advancing from the south, where would you put your men?"

He was pleased when Alistair's first question was to ascertain just how many men he had, and of what types.

* * *

They stopped for a midday meal at a small inn just inside the Wending Wood. The innkeeper was clearly very pleased to see his Arl, and kept bowing to Loghain until his wife chased him away and saw the pair of them seated. The food was good; some spit-roasted goose, its skin crackling from cooking by the fire, steamed wheat berries, and a dish of leeks and garlic sauteed in butter, served with a nutty brown ale that was brewed on the premises.

Alistair wasn't looking forward to getting back on his horse, his tailbones and thighs already feeling rather well-worn from their morning's travel. Travel which had gone by surprisingly quickly, as distracted as he was by the multitude of questions Loghain had peppered him with all morning. Half of it had been spent working through tactical problems related to the varied landscape they were passing through, and the rest had been used in reviewing some of the other subjects he was taking.

He'd been surprised to discover how much of things like Ferelden's history, genealogy and heraldry he was able to remember, but then so much of that all connected together; a battle here leading to a newly founded noble family there, and their heraldry tied to surrounding events, more often than not. He'd also been first surprised, and then annoyed with himself, at how good he had felt when Loghain had given him an approving look and a slight nod over his having remembered some particularly obscure bit of information. He hated the man, with almost as much reason as Tisha did, he reminded himself. He didn't _want_ Loghain's approval.

Even if it had felt nice to have someone's approval for once. Something he hadn't had since Solona and he had parted ways. She'd been one of the very few people in his life to think well of him; to value him. To seek out his advice, to actually think he was even worth _listening_ to. He found a lump closing his throat, and had to push away the remainder of his meal uneaten.

Loghain paid for their food and exchanged a final few words with the innkeeper's wife, winning a broad smile from her, before leading the way back out to the yard. "There's an outhouse in back," Loghain told him. "Best we make use of it while we have the opportunity. Here," he added, and tossed something at Alistair.

He just barely managed to catch it without dropping it; a small ceramic jar, its mouth plugged with a leather-covered wooden stopper. He gave Loghain a questioning look.

"A poultice for your saddle sores," Loghain explained brusquely, then walked away, heading around in back of the inn.

Alistair bit his lip, surprised, then reminded himself that of course it was the sort of thing Loghain would think of. Alistair's sores might slow them down, otherwise. He should have thought of it himself, considering how painful the journey from Amaranthine to the keep had been. He headed around to the back of the inn, and took care of what was necessary. Getting back on his horse again afterwards still was far from pleasant, as was the prospect of several hours more riding today, but at least it wasn't quite as bad as it might have been otherwise.

Loghain was quieter during the afternoon, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. They only stopped once, dismounting to rest the horses and let them drink from a stream that passed near the road and then browse a litte. A pair of hunters came along while they were sitting and resting. Rather to Alistair's surprise, Loghain greeted the pair by name. The three of them then spent some little time in talk, discussing sights the trappers had seen in their travels, how the trapping had been over the winter, how plentiful game seemed this summer, and similar subjects, before the two men nodded a polite but otherwise informal farewell, and continued on their way.

He'd known the name of the innkeeper and his wife as well, Alistair remembered, and then thought about how the messenger from Gwaren had spoken of the miller's son – what had his name been... something short – as if fully expecting Loghain to know of whom he was speaking. As, indeed, he had.

When they overtook a woodsman later that day, walking along beside an ox-drawn cart piled with heavy sections of logs, he noticed that Loghain knew his name, too. The pair exchanged smiles and nods, and a few words about the current value of good black oak, and a question about the health of the woodman's wife, before Loghain touched heels to his horse and led them past the cart.

A startling contrast to Arl Eamon, Alistair found himself thinking, who more often than not hadn't even know the names of his own household servants, much less those of any of the Redcliffe villagers. Other than the mayor, and perhaps one or two other relatively important figures, anyway. Beyond that he'd only cared to know the names of the banns within his arling. Bann Teagan had been different, Alistair remembered; he'd always been impressed by how Teagan seemed to know everyone's name, not just at Rainesfere but everyone at Redcliffe too, and often enough about people to ask about how they or their family was doing. He remembered how warmly everyone would smile at Bann Teagan, how pleased the servants were to look after him when he came visiting, how the stable boys and grooms would almost compete for the right to look after his horse, in hopes of earning a smile and a word of thanks from him.

He found himself considering how much he'd always liked Teagan; because Teagan _remembered_ who he was. Even after years without seeing him. Clearly the people of Loghain's arling were just as pleased that their arl knew them; that he considered them and their lives important enough to know their names, to remember who they were and a little bit about them. It was almost like a kind of magic, Alistair found himself thinking. He wondered if Loghain did it on purpose, out of a cunning knowledge that it would win him support, or if he just did it naturally, as Teagan had always seemed to. Loghain had been born and raised a peasant himself, after all, his childhood no more grand than that of his least subject. He'd married a peasant, too – a craftswoman. Perhaps to him they _were_ important.

It fit, he found himself thinking, with the man whom Gwill had described; a good general, who valued the lives of his soldiers. And yet it fit not at all with a man who could knowingly sell citizens of Ferelden off to Tevinter slavers. Especially elves, knowing how they were treated there. Unless, like so many humans did, he thought less of elves than he would have of... of... of a mabari, or a horse. Talking livestock, little better than animals. But _that_ didn't fit with the Loghain that Tisha's grandfather had known, either. Though people changed.

Still, it bothered him that he didn't understand Loghain. He'd thought he had, during the Blight year. It had seemed so simple and obvious then; there was Loghain, who was evil and power-hungry and wanted him dead, to whom he was completely willing to return the feeling. Then there were people like Cailan and Duncan, who'd been good people who died because of Loghain's treachery, and people like Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan, whose opinions he'd trusted even when it meant horrible things like him maybe having to become king. And Solona, who he'd thought he could trust too, right up until she agreed to make Loghain into a Grey Warden rather than executing as he so obviously deserved.

Even back then a few cracks had appeared in his images of people though. Like finding those letters in King Cailan's chest at Ostagar. Even Alistair wasn't politically naive enough to think that a marriage alliance with Orlais was in the least sane. Cailan would have been lucky to live much beyond fathering a living, reasonably healthy heir or two. And that Arl Eamon had been urging Cailan to set aside Anora after so few years of marriage, when _he'd_ certainly never put aside Isolde during her long years of barrenness before Connor was finally born.

It made his head ache. Why did it all have to be so _complicated_ now.

Tisha had been right about one thing though; it was easiest just to hate Loghain.

* * *

"You're very quiet this afternoon," Loghain said, glancing at the sky to judge the time, and choosing to ignore that he, too, had been less than communicative.

"Um. Just thinking about things," Alistair said, sounding uncomfortable.

"About anything interesting?" Loghain asked. "Anything in particular?"

"No, not really," Alistair said, and fell silent for a few paces, a slight frown on his face, then abruptly spoke again. "Why do you keep people like Tisha around, when she wants to kill you?"

"Or you, for that matter?" Loghain asked, a thin smiled crossing his lips, then shrugged. "People have been wanting me dead for most of my life. And usually making much more credible attempts at it than Tisha has any hope of achieving. The day I have to worry about someone as unskilled as Tisha getting the sharp end in, you might as well stack my pyre, because someone else will have beaten her to it."

"You've got a lot of enemies, then?"

"Maker, yes, of course I do. There's hardly a chevalier or nobleman in Orlais who doesn't wish he could decorate his sword with my blood and guts, just for a start. Half the women too, last I heard. The other half apparently want to _marry_ me," he added, and gave a theatrical shudder. "Maker preserve me from any such fate. Then, of course, there are some of the finest flowers of our own Fereldan nobility, who've always hated that Maric chose to reward me so richly for my part in the rebellion. They see me as nothing more than a jumped-up peasant, conveniently forgetting that at some point in the distant past, so were their own ancestors. I'll admit that being made Teyrn of Gwaren was far better than I ever deserved, but Maric wouldn't listen to me when I said I'd be quite happy being a mere bann, and that I didn't even particularly want that."

He fell silent, remembering that argument. Maric had believed at the time that it had been why Loghain had gone off to Gwaren and avoided court for so many years afterwards. Loghain had been content to let him believe so, rather than ever telling him the truth. It had been years after Rowan's death before Maric ever admitted to him that he knew; that Rowan had confessed their affair to him, when the love between the royal pair had reached the point that they ceased keeping secrets from each other. Not that Maric had had many of his own secrets to share, never having bothered much to keep anything from her. Maric had regretted that, in retrospect, he said; that he'd cared so little for her good opinion of him that he'd made no effort to hide his dalliance with Katriel from her; that if anything he'd flaunted it.

"Rowan was better than I deserved," Maric said, staring into his goblet of wine – they were of course both well into their cups, or the conversation never would have gone where it had. "I am eternally grateful that she was able to forgive me; to share her life and eventually her love with me."

Loghain had said nothing in return; he could hardly disagree, and yet saying yes would have said both too much and too little. Maric had smiled, and poured them more wine, and they'd sat in silence the remainder of the evening, just two old friends sitting by a fire, sharing good wine and lost in memories.

He realized he'd been silent for too long, and hastily resumed speaking. "Nor are they the only ones. There hasn't been an army yet where at least some of the soldiers didn't bear a grudge for their commander. Because of an order given or not given, a punishment received – no matter how well-deserved – or a death or maiming in battle that they thought could have been avoided. Not to mention the inevitable madmen who seek to kill anyone of repute, as if by murdering someone well-known or well-loved they can somehow acquire some of their fame or win the affection that is missing in their lives."

He glanced over at Alistair. "Anyway, I am not so overburdened with wardens that I can afford to lose even one, even if that one hates me," he said, endeavouring not to make his tone of voice too pointed. The boy still winced slightly anyway, he was obscurely pleased to see. "We should make camp soon," he continued, changing the subject. "We'd have to push on too long after dark to make Denerim tonight, and I'd prefer to camp before we start running into the swarms of insects near the Blackmarsh. There's a clearing half a mile further ahead, just off the left side of the road; watch for a tall cedar, it's the only one right along the road in this stretch."

Alistair nodded, looking attentively around, and a short time later pointed ahead. "Is that the tree?"

"Yes, it is," Loghain agreed, and a few minutes later they turned off the road and onto the narrow trail leading to the clearing.

He was pleased to see that Alistair knew his way around setting up camp for the evening; even moving slowly from the pain of his saddle sores, he was off his horse and hauling the tent down from mule-back as soon as they'd stopped. Loghain didn't have to instruct him at all, and in a refreshingly short time the pair of them had the tent raised, the horses and mules unloaded, watered, hobbled and put to graze for the night, wood gathered, and a pottage simmering over the fire. But then the boy had spent over a year tramping from one end to the other of Ferelden and back again, and half a year among more knowledgeable wardens before that, and they weren't exactly known for being sedentary.

Doubtless he'd even learned a thing or two when in training to be a templar, though overall Loghain thought little of the templars as far as being any sort of military organization. Too little discipline among themselves and almost no training at all in anything more than very small-unit movement and tactics; they only rarely travelled in anything bigger than a four-man patrol, and more often just in pairs in the more settled areas. Their biggest danger, he felt, was in their sheer numbers, and the fact that their loyalty lay to the Orlesian-based chantry, not anywhere within the countries where they served.

The pottage, he decided when they sat down to eat some time later, could have used a little less salt and a little more herbs, but he'd had worse. It was at least warm and filling and reasonably tasty, and Alistair blessedly wasn't one of those people who felt like they had to fill every moment with idle chatter. If anything he was usually too quite, speaking only when Loghain made some effort to draw him out. Understandable, he supposed; the boy didn't much like him, after all. He remembered his own initial dislike of the boy's father.

Maker... that brought back memories. That escape with Maric through the Korcari Wilds following the murder of Queen Moira, after Loghain's father had been killed covering their escape, killed by the Orlesian soldiers on Maric's trail. The only time Maric had shut up the first few days had been when he was deathly ill, while the only times Loghain had spoke had been when he absolutely had to. Maric been almost entirely useless at anything other than talking, unable to even light a fire on his own, much less forage or hunt or find his way through the wilds without getting lost. Alistair might look a fair bit like his father, except for the eyes, but he was very little like him otherwise. Mind you, he was a few years older now than Maric had been than, and by Andraste's arse didn't that thought make Loghain feel old and tired, especially when the boy looked so blighted _young_ to him.

He supposed Alistair wasn't really all that young though, nor a boy, no more than they had been. He still remembered Maric's shock at eventually learning that Loghain was even younger than he was. Not that there'd actually been all that much difference in their ages, but Maric had been assuming all along that Loghain's knowledge and maturity were the product of extra years, not just of harder experience. Maric had buckled down after that, he remembered, and taken the time to learn how to look after himself.

Not that Maric had been entirely helpless, even then; this was after all the same Maric who, alone and unarmed, had still bashed in the head of one of his pursuers shortly after his mother's murder. Against a tree root, as Loghain recalled the story shared with him some years after the fact by Maric. Another of those nights when they'd been drinking together by the fire; Maric had learned the value of a good silence by then, but he still tended to be talkative when in his cups.

Maker, he missed the man. Looking across the fire at his son made it hurt all the more, and made him very thankful that Alistair preferred far shorter hair that either Maric or Cailan had favoured, and had brown eyes instead of blue. Not that Alistair's hair was as cropped as the boy had previously kept it; it was still showing some vague resemblance to the short, shaped cut Loghain remembered him as having, but rather longer now, grown out and shaggy. He wondered if Alistair was planning to let it continue growing out, or would resume cutting it short now that he was beginning to look after himself properly again. He hoped for short; Alistair reminded him too painfully much of Maric and Cailan as it was.

There was little for them to do that evening, apart from cleaning up from their meal. Loghain spent a little time quizzing Alistair on his recent lessons rather than seeing the time go entirely to waste, but his heart wasn't in it. "We might as well turn in early," he finally said. "The earlier to bed, the earlier we're likely to be up and on our way in the morning."

Alistair nodded, and the two retired to their tent. Loghain was amused, and just the slightest bit annoyed, to notice how embarrassed the boy was again made by Loghain's near-nakedness. Alistair was clearly also uncomfortable with removing his own armour and clothing in Loghain's presence, swathing himself in a voluminous nightshirt and his blankets early on in the process and trying to undress under cover of it all, a difficult and time-consuming process.

"I suppose I should point out that your exceeding modesty is misplaced," Loghain said dryly. "You don't have anywhere near enough curves nor the right physical equipment to be my type, and surely after a life as a stable boy, chantry student and templar-in-training you have spent considerable time in dormitories. You should be used to sharing accommodations with others of the same sex."

Alistair's blush darkened further, though at least a little of the tenseness went out of him. "That was different," he said a short time later, as he pulled his quilted leggings out from under his blankets and put them neatly aside

"How so?" Loghain asked as he wrapped himself up in his own blankets and tried to make himself comfortable; something he didn't find overly difficult, having spent most of his life, or so it often seemed like, sleeping in tents on the hard ground rather than in a real bed.

Alistair was silent for long enough that he'd begun to think he wasn't going to answer, and then he did. "Because none of them ever tried to have me killed."

That startled a brief laugh out of Loghain. "All right, I suppose I deserved that," he said, rolling over on his back and smiling up at the tent canvas overhead, then sighed. "I promise you I have never made a practise of killing my squires, and of the two of us in this tent, I'm fairly certain that you're more likely to try and harm me than the reverse. You _are_ my squire, which means you are unfortunately going to have to get used to such things as seeing me in various states of undress, and sharing quarters with me, and not always with the benefit of separate rooms. You can either continue letting it bother you, or you can accept it and learn to live with it. I would further note that in any military organization – templars, soldiers, guardsmen, or wardens – there is often little room for niceties in the field, and we won't always have _time_ for modesty. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, sounding more abashed than grudging, which Loghain decided was good enough for now.

"Don't forget to use some more of that poultice," Loghain said, then closed his eyes and, near-presence of someone who likely wished him dead or not, was soon fast asleep.


	20. A Properly Trained Squire

Loghain was up, shaved, dressed, and cooking breakfast before Alistair finally stirred, a groan of pain escaping him. Loghain did his best not to smile as he added bacon to one pan, then checked the progress of the pan-bread be was baking in a second pan. "Breakfast shortly," he called out, and dug in the pack at his side, taking out tin mugs and spooning tea leaves into both of them, listening as Alistair rose – with more groans – and stumbled off into the bushes to take care of morning necessities, before returning for his shaving kit and heading down to the stream to see to cleaning himself up for the day.

Loghain had already consumed his own breakfast – a sandwich of warm panbread filled with slices of crisp bacon and melting cheese, and a mug full of well-sweetened tea – by the time Alistair had washed, shaved, dressed, and returned to the fire. "You can clean up and pack the dishes," Loghain informed him, and went off to see to their bedrolls and the tent. He took his time, and was pleased to see that Alistair ate while cleaning up and packing things away, so that they finished at much the same time. A short pause to fasten on their armour over the gambesons and leggings they were already wearing, and then they tacked up and loaded the horses and mules and set out.

It was early enough in the day that there was still mist rising from the watercourses that sometimes wandered near the road. He paused on a hilltop on the border of the woods, looking out over the misty landscape drenched in morning light, and could think only of how much he loved this land. "That's the Aralt ridge over there," he told Alistair, gesturing at the rocky heights off to their left, the hill they were on part of its outskirts. "North of it is the Blackmarsh; south of it is Denerim Bay."

Alistair grunted, and looked around, studying the landscape. They continued down the hill after a few minutes, neither speaking further. Loghain glanced along the wide stream at the foot of the hill, one the road arched over on a small stone bridge; it was, he knew, the point where they crossed from the Arling of Amaranthine to the Arling of Denerim.

Their road was almost all downhill from there, winding down into the broad river valley where Denerim lay, tucked in along both sides of the Drakon River where it flowed into Denerim Bay at the foot of Dragon's Peak. They reached the gates of the city shortly after midday. Loghain stopped to exchange a few words with the men on the gates, then they rode through and into the first ward if the city.

Alistair looked around curiously. "It looks a lot different than I remember," he said.

Loghain reined in his horse for a moment, turning his head to glance at Alistair. "That's right, you'd left Ferelden before the Battle of Denerim, hadn't you?" He looked around as they moved on, remembering what the city had looked like before, and then the devastation afterwards. "Most of it was destroyed when the darkspawn invaded. Much of what wasn't destroyed outright either burned in the fires afterwards, or was pulled down to make fire breaks. The city burned for days; almost everything north of the river was gone, and there was significant damage to the south bank neighbourhoods as well," he explained, then smiled slightly as he turned to the right at the first major intersection they reached, just before the gate to the second ward. "Anora took advantage of the destruction to have a few changes made during the rebuilding."

Which was, of course, an understatement. The old Denerim had been a close-packed warren of half-timbered buildings, acres of buildings made of wood and wattle-and-daub, mostly with roofs of thatch or wooden shingles. Highly flammable, as the days after the battle had so amply demonstrated. And also largely indefensible, once the city walls were gotten past. There had been little interior partitioning of the city, and that mostly unmanned stretches of far older city walls, poorly maintained, and too low to be of much help in preventing the spread of fires. Or of darkspawn. Only the noble quarter and alienage on the south bank had maintained half-decent walls, and even that had been more suited to keeping out the riff-raff – or keeping them in, depending on your point of view and which location you were speaking of – than any actual defensive function.

Faced with rebuilding almost her entire capital city, Queen Anora had made a number of decisions of which Loghain could only approve. She'd had the city divided into wards, separated by high walls that doubled as both defensive structures and fire breaks, and also had a grid of wide streets marked out, solving what had been a long-standing problem with transport through the city. Parks and marketplaces had been placed adjacent to the gates between wards, providing open areas that could become killing fields in the event of an invasion; places where defenders on the high walls could have clear fields of fire at and forces trying to take the gates. It was illegal to build adjacent to a wall; laneways ran along the base of both sides of all of them, providing additional room for a firebreak, and making it that much harder to any attacking force to try to gain the tops of the walls.

Within the grid of the larger streets the city had resumed its former maze-like tangle of winding side-streets and alley ways, but there were significant changes even there. Anora had pushed through a system of building codes, largely about the exterior facing of buildings, covering everything from the minimum thickness required for each floor to what materials were allowable to use. It was now a requirement that all exterior walls be faced in materials that weren't easily flammable; stone, brick, stucco, and tile walls were now common, with roofs of slate, tile, or clay-covered thatch. Where the flammability of a surface was in dispute, she'd instituted a test of having a lit torch held to the surface for five minutes. After a newly rebuilt tenement subjected to the test had gone up in flames early in the rebuilding, and its owner subsequently fined – the stucco coating over its board walls had been too thin, and adulterated with too much organic material – people had adhered to the new laws much more carefully than they might have otherwise.

She'd also hired dwarves to build a modern sewer system under the city, something Denerim had been needing for ages. People had complained about the cost, of course, but no one was complaining about the results; the streets were already much less noisome, the river ran cleaner, and there'd been noticeably fewer deaths to summer fever the year before, and would likely be even fewer this year as the system was expanded further.

"Aren't we going the wrong way?" Alistair asked, looking around with a puzzled expression, and recalling Loghain from his wandering thoughts.

"Hmmm? No, we're not," Loghain told him. "I have routes open to me that the general public are unable to take," he added, not without a touch of smugness as they approached the well-guarded gates to the army compound. Its grounds lay on both sides of the Drakon River where it first entered the city, with a large keep and barracks on the south side, and extensive practise grounds, stables, and more barracks on the north side, the two halves connected by a pair of bridges whose centre spans could be retracted from the keep side of the river, that being by far the more defensible location. It had been one of the few places in the city to survive the Battle of Denerim relatively intact, though attacks by the darkspawn and Archdemon had damaged it enough to require extensive repairs to the main fortification and the walls that separated it from the remainder of the city.

"Ser," the soldiers said as he approached, formally saluting him with arms crossed over chests. A courtesy that strictly speaking they no longer owed him, but which he accepted in the spirit it was offered, saluting them in return before passing through the long tunnel through the heavily fortified wall and out into the practise yards of the compound.

When he had been General of the armies of Ferelden, this had been his domain, every man and woman therein his to command. They were the responsibility of someone else now, and yet it still lifted his heart to enter the grounds. He took a deep breath, drawing in the well-remembered scents of dust, armour polish, sweat, horse manure, and army cooking. He longed to stop and watch the men drilling, but quelled the desire, knowing he would only be a distraction. That didn't stop him from keeping a sharp eye out as they rode through, of course. He noticed more than a few faces he knew, and was pleased to see at least two of them with higher rank marked on their uniforms than when he'd last seen them. A few noticed him, and either nodded or saluted, he responding in kind but otherwise trying to draw no particular attention to himself.

Alistair, he was amused to see, was trying to look everywhere at once; clearly fascinated by all the purposeful activity going on around them. He supposed the boy must have had very little exposure to any real military organization. Templars had their own ways of doing things, and Grey Wardens barely had ranks, much less any organization, though he was trying to ensure that the Grey Wardens of Ferelden actually had some form of one. He made a mental note to make sure that the ranks and organization of the army were among the subjects he covered with the boy; even if it was unlikely to ever be applicable to the wardens, it never hurt to know how those you might have to work with were organized.

They crossed one of the bridges to the keep, and only there did he stop, pausing long enough to send word to the present General that he was in the city and could be reached at the palace if desired; a courtesy only, of course, and mostly so that Cauthrien would learn of his presence officially rather than through the grape-vine. They continued on, passing out the south gate of the keep and along a sharply dog-legged, steep road to the main thoroughfare that encircled the noble quarter. Turning right would have taken them on to Fort Drakon, also part of the army's holdings in Denerim, while turning left as they did led them around the base of the wall enclosing the noble's quarter – a much higher and more well-guarded wall than had been there at the time of the Blight – to the entrance gate closest to the palace.

Though it, too, had suffered damage during the Blight year, the palace overall looked little changed now than it had when he'd first seen it. Not for the first time he found himself wondering just how many times he'd passed through its gates. Hundreds of times, certainly, perhaps even thousands, sometimes several times a day when Maric had been in an especially irksome mood. It felt almost like coming home, returning here now. Almost, but not quite – not since Maric had disappeared. Died, he reminded himself. Though no body had ever been recovered. But it was years ago when he'd decided to stop allowing himself the false hope that Maric was alive; that he would return. It was, what, seven years ago now? Eight? An ungodly long time, anyway. If Maric was alive, he'd have returned by now. Therefore he must be dead.

Servants swarmed down the steps as soon as he drew them to a stop in the courtyard; word had clearly been sent ahead of him at some point; likely a runner had been sent off the moment he was spotted approaching the city gates. "With me," he told Alistair as he dismounted, and led the way up the stairs, leaving their gear and horses for the servants to deal with.

Anora met them as they entered the palace, a warm smile on her face as she swept into the entrance hall. It faltered for a moment as she caught sight of Alistair, though he only noticed because he knew her so well.

"Father," she said, moving forward to take both his hands in his.

"My Queen," he said, and went down on one knee. She hated when he did that, he knew, but he did it anyway; it was her due. And the more excitable of her nobles would have fussed if word ever reached them that he hadn't. Some of them still hadn't forgiven him for his actions after Cailan's death. He hardly blamed them, not when he couldn't entirely forgive himself either. She sniffed to signify her dislike, as she always did, and once he'd risen kissed his cheek, also as she always did, then released his hands and took a step back, glancing at Alistair and frowning slightly.

"Anora, I'm sure you remember Alistair. He's my squire."

"Ah," she said, face setting and chin raising just slightly. "Yes, I remember him quite well," she said, then turned slightly, so she was facing toward Loghain in a way that subtly but clearly ignored the boy. "I've ordered your usual rooms opened for you. I can order part of the Grey Warden compound opened as well..."

"There's no need for that, as there's just Alistair and myself. My rooms should be sufficient for the pair of us."

"Are you sure that's appropriate?" she asked, eyebrows raising pointedly. Clearly she did not wish Alistair here in the palace.

"He's my squire," Loghain repeated firmly. "He'll stay with me, either here, or in the Grey Warden compound."

Anora stiffened slightly, her lips pressed together and nostrils flaring just slightly. "Very well," she said, a touch coldly. "Your rooms it is, then."

"Thank you," he said, smiling gratefully at her, and bowed slightly.

She sniffed again, making it clear she still wasn't entirely happy about the matter, then changed the subject. "Have you lunched yet?"

"No, we were close enough to the city by midday that I saw no point in stopping."

She smiled. "Will you join me at table once you've had a chance to refresh yourself, then? When word reached me that you were coming I decided to delay my own meal, in the hopes that you would be available."

"Of course. Oh, and while I'm here, could I borrow the services of Corey?"

Her eyebrows rose again. "I thought you said you _have_ a squire," she said, glancing pointedly at Alistair, who had turned an interesting shade of red during all their back and forth but was wisely holding his tongue. Clearly he'd caught on that Anora was rather less than kindly disposed to him.

"Yes, but he's barely begun his training. He'd benefit from seeing a properly trained squire at work."

She sniffed again, but gestured to one of the pages waiting nearby. The boy dashed off, doubtless to let Corey know that he was being loaned out to Loghain again. Loghain smiled warmly at his daughter. "Thank you. And now I'd best go prepare for lunch. Your rooms?"

"Yes. Half an hour?"

"Of course. Thank you," he said, and bowed more formally to her as she departed, Alistair hastily doing the same. "This way, he told the boy, and set off down a nearby hallway, soon turning to take stairs upwards. Alistair muttered something under his breath; Loghain chose not to hear it.

Maric had put a suite of rooms aside for Loghain's use the day he'd reclaimed the palace, even before he'd ever named him Teyrn of Gwaren. It had not been until after Rowan's death that Loghain had begun to make any regular use of them, but over time they'd become more of a home to him than his own manor in Gwaren ever had, or even the townhouse in the noble's quarter that was his as Teyrn of Gwaren, or the rooms in the army compound that had been his as General of Ferelden. The former now belonged to Anora, the latter to Ser Cauthrien, but these rooms... they were still his, still held ready for him whenever he should chance to be in Denerim and filled with the detritus of close to thirty years of on-and-off residence.

Corey was waiting outside the door of his rooms, not looking even the least out of breath, though he must have had to run to beat them here. Either that or he'd assumed he'd be wanted, as he usually was, and come ahead on his own beforehand. "Good afternoon, Arl Loghain," he said, and bowed politely before looking at Alistair curiously.

"My squire, Alistair," Loghain told him. "Alistair, this is Corey."

"Huh. Bit old to be a squire, isn't he?" Corey asked as he followed the pair of them into Loghain's suite, the lad not being without a certain amount of cheek.

"Yes, he is. And not even as well-trained yet as a proper page. I was hoping that while we're here you could take him in hand and show him what his duties are."

Corey grinned, clearly liking the idea of being in command of someone so much older and bigger than he was. "Yes, ser," he said cheerfully.

"Good. While I go freshen up, you two lay out some clothing for me to wear to lunch; nothing too formal. And then you can help Alistair with the unpacking, show him where his bed is, and see to it that he gets some lunch as well. Alistair, you can study after that, I expect I'll be closeted with the Queen for much of the afternoon."

"Oh, err, I didn't bring any of my books," Alistair admitted, looking surprised and, to his credit, somewhat shame-faced.

Loghain snorted. "Show him where the library is after lunch," he told Corey, then looked back to Alistair. "I do hope you at least remember the titles of what texts you were currently reading?"

"Yes, ser," Alistair said.

"Good," he said, and headed off to the bathing chamber.

* * *

Corey barely glanced at the neat pile of luggage the servants had left in one corner of the room, then headed over to one of a pair of large clothes-presses against one wall. "His more casual things and gambesons and the like go into the one on the left," the boy said, then opened the doors of the one on the right. "Court clothes and formal uniforms and so on in here. There's suitable undergarments and sockings and shoes in the drawers underneath. You do know what he means by not too formal?"

"Er, no, not really," Alistair admitted. "He usually selects his own clothes, back at the keep, and I just help him with his armour."

"All right then," Corey said, and then went into a long explanation having to do with seasons, materials, colours, and crests that made Alistair's head spin, then gestured for Alistair to make a selection from the neatly hung clothing.

"Like this?" he asked after making a choice, having tried to keep in mind everything Corey had just explained.

"Almost. Good material for the season, but look at the crest, it's the wyvern of Gwaren – he can't wear that any more, those are Queen Anora's lands now."

"Oh. Then why does he still have it here?"

Corey shrugged, and moved to perch on a bench at the foot of the bed.. "No idea. He got rid of most of his crested things after they stripped him of the terynir. Or had the crests removed or changed. But he kept a few pieces; for the memories, I suppose. Anyway, hang that up at the other end of the pole and try again."

The younger squire approved of Alistair's next selection, an unmarked deep blue tunic with small silver buttons at neck and cuffs. Leggings and stockings to go with it were much easier to select, as well as a pair of soft indoor shoes. He was unpacking and putting away Loghain's things under Corey's direction when Loghain came back in, freshly bathed and wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.

"Show him where his bed is," Loghain ordered, and the two quickly left the room, Alistair pausing only long enough to grab his own pack from the pile.

The bed turned out to be built into a curtained alcove just outside the bedroom, in the short hallway between it and the sitting room. It was built into the wall, with storage underneath it – drawers, and a small cupboard – and some shelves over it, with a clever folding desk built into the back wall. Thankfully it had been designed to accommodate even quite well-grown squires, so it was reasonably comfortable even for someone of Alistair's size. By the time he'd put away his own belongings, Loghain had finished dressing and left for lunch, so they returned to the bedroom to finish unpacking and putting away his things.

"You're really his squire?" Corey asked as he arranged items on the small night stand by the large curtained bed, glancing sideways at Alistair.

"Yes, I'm really his squire," Alistair said, unable to keep the resentment entirely out of his voice as he transferred stockings and smalls from the packs to the left-hand clothes-press.

"Huh. Why?"

"Honestly? I'm not entirely sure, other than that it gives him yet another reason to order to me around. And he says I need to have a proper education."

"Huh. You're lucky."

Alistair gave Corey a disbelieving look. "Lucky? To be _his_ servant?"

"Yes, lucky," Corey said, sounding mildly annoyed. "A squire is a lot more than just a servant, you know. Ser Loghain doesn't take on squires very often, and he usually only takes on the _really_ good ones. I'm lucky that he thinks well enough of me to let me squire for him when he's here, but then he's known me since I was just Cailan's youngest page. Anyway, Loghain has only had two squires in the last twenty years, and one of _them_ is now General of the Armies of Ferelden."

"Wait... isn't that Ser Cauthrien?"

"Yes."

"He had a _woman_ as his squire!?"

"Yes, though she wasn't one for very long, only until he knighted her. For bravery in battle; that was when the Orlesians tried our borders again back in 17 Dragon, and he held them off at the Battle of Gherlen's Pass. She was his aid for years after that, until she was made Commander of Maric's Shield."

"Huh. You seem to know a lot about her."

"Of course I do. _I've_ been properly educated. And she's General of the Armies of Ferelden, so she's pretty blighted important, isn't she? Anyway, let's go get something to eat."

Alistair nodded, and followed the boy out of Loghain's rooms, and downstairs to the kitchens. There was an alcove full of benches to one side of it, where a number of pages, squires, and younger servants were lounging around, some of them eating, some of them just talking. A row of small bells hung on the wall overhead. Alistair remembered a similar – though much smaller – arrangement in a room near the kitchen at Redcliffe, where servants could wait out of sight until a bell summoned them.

"Who's this then?" one of the cooks working nearby asked, eyeing Alistair suspiciously and frowning at his dusty armour. "A Grey Warden?"

"Yes, and Ser Loghain's latest squire," Corey said, taking a seat. "Just rode in, and hasn't lunched yet. Nor have I."

The cook snorted, then called out to one of the scullions, and in fairly short order they were brought bowls of lamb stew and a crusty roll apiece. Alistair ate quietly, listening to the conversations going on around him. There was clearly a pecking order among the people gathered there, most of them boys, though there was a female page and two female servants. The pages were lowest, the servants next, and the squires higher than them, with an order of some kind within each group as well, though he wasn't sure if it was based on their own accomplishments or on who they served. Probably on who they served, if it was anything like the way things had been back in Redcliffe in his youth.

The thought made him feel unexpectedly homesick for Redcliffe. Things had been so much simpler when he was just a stable-boy. He'd had a place, friends... he'd thought he'd known what his life would be like, a servant among other servants. He wondered what his past self would have thought if he'd known all that would happen in his life later. Probably wouldn't have believed it.

He noticed that despite the pecking order, everyone stopped and listened when one of the pages spoke; a slight boy, with curly black hair, a dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and large dark eyes set in a surprisingly serious face for one so young. The tabard he wore was worked with the royal mabari; one of Anora's own pages then. There was also a smaller crest on a small badge on his upper sleeve; the bull's head of West Hills, Alistair realized after a moment.

He asked Corey about the boy on their way upstairs to the library after eating. "Why'd everyone stop to listen whenever he spoke? Is it because he's Anora's page?"

"Galway? Nah, it's because he's got a good head on his shoulders. _He_ doesn't have to worry about whether or not he'll make squire. They'd have made him one already, except he's too young for it yet. Next year. And I bet he makes knight at sixteen, too. People listen to him because he's special."

"Why? What's so special about him?"

"Well... To start, you know that during the Blight, Arl Wulff lost all three of his sons to the darkspawn?"

"Yes, I heard about that," Alistair agreed, remembering an angry, bitter man he and Solona had encountered in the Gnawed Noble shortly before the Landsmeet, and his later support of Solona against Loghain.

"Well, that was just the true-born sons. A little before his wife died he'd taken a mistress, one of the maids, and she'd given him a natural son; that's Galway. Arl Wulff had been planning to foster the boy out when he was old enough; there wasn't anything for him in West Hills, not with three older legitimate brothers. But he wanted to do right by him, see him raised properly and knighted some day. Anyway, when the darkspawn showed up Arl Wulff went out in one direction with his youngest son, who was his squire, and sent the oldest and middle sons out the other way, to warn his villagers and get them all moving toward his keep, where he could protect them. Galway went with his brothers, since he'd been acting as page to the eldest to prepare him for being a real page once he was fostered out. Everything went fine at first, and then while they were escorting back the group of villagers, darkspawn came swarming out of the hills. The two older boys and the guards they had with them engaged them and fought a rearguard action, and Galway was ordered to go with the villagers and see they made it to safety."

"And all his brothers died, so he ended up heir?"

"Yes, but that wasn't all. That's not why he's special. See, he'd seen how many darkspawn there were, and figured there was a good chance that the rearguard would fall, and he knew it was far enough to the keep that the darkspawn might overtake them while they were still outside the walls. So as they moved along, he organized the villagers he had, putting anyone who had anything that could be used as a weapon at the rear, and anyone who didn't was to help carry the kids, so they could all move faster. And he gave his own horse, the only one they had by then, to a girl who knew how to ride and told her to get to the keep and get help for them," Corey explained further.

"When the darkspawn did catch up with them they were ready for them, and he kept the villagers from panicking and managed a fighting retreat until guards from the keep showed up and killed the remaining darkspawn. He only lost ten of the villagers, six to darkspawn and three to blight sickness afterwards, and one heart attack. And killed two of the darkspawn himself, to top it all off. So there he was not even really a page yet and he'd already done stuff that would have seen him knighted if he was old enough for it. So he's already proven himself, and is going to be made a squire the minute he's old enough and likely knighted early too. _And_ he's his father's only living son, since all three of his older brothers died, so he's been named the heir now, and some day he's going to be the next Arl Wulffe. Gallagher Wulff isn't exactly a young man, either, so there's a chance he might make Arl even before he makes knight. He doesn't talk much, I guess because of everything that happened, but anything he says is usually worth paying attention to."

"Huh," Alistair said. "That does sound pretty special," he agreed.

They'd reached the doors to the library then, so they broke off the discussion, Corey helping him to find several of the books he needed and then showing him the way back to Loghain's rooms before finally leaving him on his own again. Alistair put the books away on the shelves over his bed, then settled down with one of them to read. Though he found himself unable to concentrate, thinking instead of the dark-haired boy. A bastard son, but his father had been planning to have him made a knight some day anyway, not just raising him to be nothing more than a servant. He was surprised to realize he felt a little jealous of Galway. Not because he was hi father's heir, either, but because Galway at least knew his father, and his father _cared_ about him and his future.

Then he found himself remembering something Loghain had said that first day, when explaining his decision to make Alistair his squire, and his upcoming education. "There are things you need to learn; things you should have been learning a full decade or more ago, rather than learning how to shovel out horseshit or sing Andraste's praises. Things you _would_ have learned, if you'd been properly fostered out as Maric's bastard son rather than raised as a peasant by that clodpole Eamon."

It made him wonder; when Maric had left his raising to Eamon – had he expected that his son would be nothing more than a servant in Eamon's castle? Or had he expected him to be properly fostered, to become a page and a squire and eventually a knight, as Arl Wulff had planned for Galway before the Blight year had changed everyone's plans?

The worst thing was realizing he had no real way of knowing, no one he could ask who might know. Except, perhaps, Loghain himself. And asking Loghain _anything_ about his father... no. Not now. Probably not ever.


	21. Planning Ahead

Loghain frowned as he read through the latest message from Nathaniel. Thankfully Nate had been intelligent enough to assume that his commander was unlikely to just sit around waiting for further word from the south, and had accordingly sent copies of his next missive to both the keep and the palace in Denerim, judging it Loghain's most likely destination shy of Gwaren itself.

"He reports clear sign of several small groups of darkspawn venturing around in the area of the sinkhole," Loghain told Anora, who was waiting patiently while he read. "He's taken the married pair of hunters into his own group, and put Podge in charge of Wilf and the third hunter – Lem, he says his name is – and given him Brann as well. Which gives him two patrols to try and keep a lid on things with until additional help arrives. Assuming the weather held, Oghren's group should have reached him by now, so we can assume he now has three patrols doing mop-up work."

"Should we send any of the army south to help?" Cauthrien asked, face creased slightly in a worried frown.

"I don't believe they'll be needed, but it might be best to send some Blight-experienced men south anyway. So far it sounds like just a minor incursion, but Maker only knows how large a break-out this may turn out to be before all is said and done. At least it doesn't appear to be another Blight, just remnants left over from the one just past."

"Can you really be sure of that?" Cauthrien asked.

"Fairly sure, yes. There are... signs, that Grey Wardens tend to become aware of, when it's a real Blight," he explained, and glanced at Anora. He'd told her about such things as the nightmares wardens experienced when an Archdemon was active, not wanting her to be as abysmally ignorant as he and Cailan had been. Perhaps if they'd known that Duncan had more than just a random sighting of a handful of darkspawn to go on, things might have turned out differently... different decisions made, at least, with some different outcome. Maybe even a better one.

"I'll send the 3rd south then; they have the most Blight experienced veterans, and know what to do to keep exposure down. If that is acceptable?" she added, looking enquiringly at Anora.

Anora nodded. "Entirely. Better we send in the army and not have them be needed, then fail to send them in and have cause to regret it later."

Loghain hid a smile, hearing his own words crossing his daughter's lips. Something he'd said to Maric once, during what had looked like just a minor problem with the Chasind barbarians in the south and had turned out to be an infiltration attempt by Orlais, their secret encampments in the southern mountains having caused the Chasind to move away northwards and thereby encroach on more settled territory. Instead of Orlais springing a surprise invasion from the south, Loghain and his men had turned the tables on them, attacking and wiping out the camps instead. Only a comparative handful of the Orlesian chevaliers had survived to escape back over the Frostbacks to Orlais, their tails rather firmly between their legs. One of his pleasanter memories, all told. Still...

"We need more wardens," he said abruptly, setting aside the letter and rising to go look at the large map of Ferelden spread out on a nearby table. "I barely have enough people to cover the north, and that only poorly. It was only by sheer chance that I'd sent a patrol south in time to catch this outbreak before it became something far worse than it is," he said, brooding over the map.

Anora and Cauthrien joined him at the table. Cauthrien reached out and touched the little drawing on the map that represented Vigil's Keep. "It's not a very central location," she agreed.

"No. Not even within the north, being placed so close to the eastern coastline as it is. A more central location, somewhere near Lake Calenhad perhaps, would have been better suited for the Grey Warden headquarters," he said, reaching out to touch several towns and keeps marked along the eastern shoreline of the lake. All, unfortunately, already occupied. He moved his finger eastwards to Lothering. _There_ would have been a good location, actually, quite central and on the main roads, even if it had been reduced to ghoul-haunted ruins in the Blight year. Too late now, however, the latest heir having been confirmed in his holding of it following the end of the war, his father having died of apoplexy upon recieving the news of what had become of his bannorn.

"Ideally I suppose you should have several establishments, like the army does," Anora spoke up.

"Yes. If I had enough wardens to man them. There's the old compound still here in Denerim, though with Vigil's Keep only a day's hard ride away one or the other of them is rather redundant. Failing having a decent central location, I suppose a pair of establishments might do. We have a northern one, so a southern one would seem the intelligent choice," he pointed out, and ran his finger south from Lothering, stopping with his finger at the most obvious southern location on the map. He swallowed, unable to bring himself to say its name.

"Ostagar," Anora said, and frowned again.

"There is at least the old fortification there, parts of which are still habitable," Cauthrien said slowly. "Though I'm not sure how habitable they'd still be since we were last there."

"I know someone who can tell us," Loghain said, and glanced across the room to where a pair of pages waited quietly on a bench, to run any errands or carry any messages that might be necessary. "Galway, go fetch my squire please. Corey will know where he is if he's not in my rooms."

"Yes, ser," the page responded promptly, rising and hurrying off.

Anora looked annoyed. Whether at him unthinkingly ordering her pages around himself rather than asking her permission first, or because she disliked Alistair and had no desire for his presence here, something she'd made no real effort to hide since their arrival a few days ago, he didn't know. "My apologies," he said, dipping her a slight bow. "Old habits die hard."

She sniffed, but smiled slightly, and made a dismissive gesture with her fingers. "Forgiven," she said, and sent the other page off to the kitchen with a request for refreshments to be brought up to them.

Tea and nibblements and Alistair all arrived at roughly the same time. Alistair, as much a bottomless pit as any warden, looked longingly at the food before even thinking to acknowledge his Commander or salute his Queen. Though he at least bowed with credibly respectful style once he did remember himself. Anora took a seat to one side, and gestured for them all to join her. The pages brought cups of tea and small plates filled with snacks to all of them. Loghain was faintly amused at how ill-at-ease Alistair looked holding a cup of tea and balancing a plate of pastries on one knee in their company. He was rather odd man out compared to the three of them, of course, so his obvious unease was completely understandable.

"Solona mentioned to me that you and she had visited Ostagar some months after it fell," Loghain explained. "We were just discussing the ruins there, and wondering what shape they were in after the battles."

"Oh," Alistair said, his expression looking haunted for a moment, before it hardened, a wary look replacing it. "Yes, we were there," he said. "It was winter by then; the ruins looked much the same as they had beforehand, except for being covered in snow and ice. I don't know that I can say much more than that; we were rather busy fighting darkspawn most of the time we were there, not sight-seeing. Was there anything in particular you wanted to know about?"

"We were talking of the possibility of establishing a Grey Warden outpost there, to make covering the southern and western parts of Ferelden easier," Loghain explained to him.

"Did you venture into the Tower of Ishal at all?" Cauthrien asked. "If it's still reasonably whole it would make an excellent location."

"Oh," Alistair said, blinking and looking both mildly surprised and more than a little relieved. Loghain wondered why. He knew from what the Amell woman had told him that they'd recovered Cailan's body and seen it properly burnt; perhaps it was just that which had the boy seeming so tense about the subject. He put aside the question to consider and perhaps pry into later.

"Yes, the Tower was still standing," Alistair said, and then plunged into an explanation of what he and Solona had seen of it, both on the night they'd climbed it to light the beacon, and later, when they'd returned and descended through the tunnels underneath it, clearing out a nest of darkspawn infesting the place. He told it well, in proper order and with all the most important and pertinent details covered; someone at some point in the past had taught him how to deliver reports concisely, at least. It was an ugly story, especially the detail of them finding bits and pieces of Cailan's armour shared out among the darkspawn they'd killed that day, which Loghain hadn't heard before.

Anora turned pale during Alistair's recitation, her tea sitting untouched and going cold as she listened, her face a mask. It was little easier for Loghain to listen to Alistair's recitation either. It made it... too real, somehow. Too immediate and fresh, instead of a pain he'd had years to become accustomed to.

"Excuse me for a moment," Anora said when Alistair had finished, and rose and left the room, the three of them hastily rising as well, only resuming their seats once she was gone.

Alistair looked a little worried, as if fearing he'd done something wrong. "Thank you," Loghain said gravely, his own voice a little rough with emotion. "That was very informative."

Loghain sent one of the pages off to request a fresh pot of tea, then walked back over to the map and stood looking down at it for a while. Not seeing the map, but Cailan, as he had looked on that last day. So like his father, on one of Maric's more blindingly self-confident days. But then Cailan had never suffered from the occasional bouts of self-doubt that Maric had. Perhaps they'd protected him too well, growing up; he'd never gone through any of the sort of hard experiences that Maric and Loghain had. Cailan had had so little happen during his life to ever crush his self-confidence, or make him question his decisions. And maybe in cushioning him so well against failure, they'd failed him instead. Though Loghain couldn't in good conscience wish the sorts of experiences Maric and he had undergone on anyone; not when for both Maric and himself it had included being witness to their mothers' brutal murders, nor the long hard years that had followed.

Anora returned, the rims of her eyes slightly reddened but otherwise looking composed. Tea arrived, too, and the pages refreshed their cups.

"All right," Anora said. "It sounds like Ostagar may be a feasible location for a second Grey Warden establishment. There's still the problem of you not having enough wardens to fully man even your current keep, much less a second one."

Loghain nodded, frowning. "I must admit I've recruited far less rapidly than I might have, since the Blight. Apart from when I first set up in Amaranthine we've had little problem with darkspawn, and I felt at the time that your nobles would be less likely to fear I was building a power base of some kind for myself if I didn't push things along too quickly. Besides, with just a handful of wardens Solona had defeated the Blight, and I'd handled the northern attacks. It didn't seem like we necessarily _needed_ any great number of wardens. Plus with the Blight already over with, I also didn't want to make too much use of the right of conscription; too likely to breed ill-will, I thought."

His frown deepened. "But patrolling all of Ferelden to watch out for sign of darkspawn, and supporting the dwarven initiatives in the Deep Roads, as I'm committed to do, takes bodies. More bodies than I have. The only good thing to likely come out of this breakout in the south is that it's given me a few more of them. But..." He paused, and sighed. "I need to begin recruiting more aggressively. I wish I could say that I could limit myself to just conscripting the dregs of the prison populations, but I'll need more than that. I'll also need trusty-worthy people; trained soldiers by preference, not just people who happen to have been too good with a knife or a bar-stool in a tavern fight."

He glanced at Cauthrien. "I'd prefer volunteers, but I'll conscript if there's no other way."

Cauthrien nodded slowly. "I can draft orders asking for volunteers," she said, not without some reluctance; it would mean losing some of her own well-trained people. "And I've got at least three men I'd be quite happy to see the back of, if you're willing to conscript them out of the stockade. Though I'll tell you plainly that one of them I'll be hanging if you don't; you might not get any more use out of him than the army has."

"That would be true in any case," Loghain said, making a face, then glanced at Alistair before continuing. "Not all recruits survive joining the Grey Wardens," he said bluntly. Something he'd already told Anora but had never told Cauthrien. Yet he could not ask her to give him some of her soldiers without making her aware that some of them would likely die as a result. "It's yet another reason why I've been reluctant to recruit widely. I would prefer that you limit the volunteers to those who are as... unattached, as possible. The fewer chances of spouses or children being bereaved or aged parents left without support, the better."

Cauthrien looked unhappy, but nodded. Alistair was looking unhappy as well, Loghain noticed, doubtless as have Grey Warden so-called "secrets" spread about. Well, he could just remain unhappy about it; as far as Loghain was concerned, much of what the Grey Wardens considered _secrets_ were things that more people should be aware of.

Alistair cleared his throat, a look on his face now as if he had something to say or ask, but was hesitant to do so.

"Yes, Alistair?"

"Um. I was just wondering... couldn't you also try to get some wardens in from elsewhere, instead of having to recruit them all yourself? I remember Duncan mentioning that some of the establishments elsewhere have literally hundreds of Grey Wardens."

Loghain grimaced. "Unfortunately I doubt the First Warden would approve any such transfers, not after I so pointedly turned down his kind offer to transfer me to Montsimmard for proper training, my position here to be taken over by a fully trained warden of his choosing. And even if he did agree, the most likely source of any such additional wardens would be Orlais. Who are still convinced that I had their complement of wardens slain, and then made up a story about talking darkspawn in a transparent effort to cover my tracks," he added dryly. "Never mind that Orlesian so-called merchants witnessed at least some of the fighting up around Amaranthine, and doubtless also saw the condition of Vigil's Keep after the fighting there. We've had quite an astonishing number of Orlesian merchants passing through Amaranthine over the last two years, you know."

"Oh," Alistair said, looking abashed.

"It was a good thought," Loghain assured him. "Just unlikely to be workable, I'm afraid."

Alistair nodded, looking relieved, and subsided back in his chair.

"Assuming that you can recruit up your numbers enough to support a second establishment... who would you wish to put in charge of it?" Anora asked thoughtfully.

"That's a good question. I'm tempted to say Nathaniel Howe, but I think your nobles will be up in arms enough over my increased recruiting and gaining a second foothold in Ferelden – at least, from their point of view – that they'd likely balk, and balk hard, at the idea of my giving any additional authority to Rendon Howe's son, no matter how unlike his father Nathaniel is."

"They'd see it as a plot," Cauthrien agreed flatly.

"Exactly. Which means either Oghren or Sigrun. Oghren is... not primary leadership material. He does best with someone in command over him, in which circumstances he performs excellently I might add. Therefore most likely Sigrun."

Anora nodded slowly. "Her attitude is rather irreverent, as I recall, but she seems quite dedicated."

"She is. She literally has nothing else to live for, but the slaying of darkspawn; she is dead to her people, and considers herself to be such as well." Loghain explained. "Which reminds me, I should talk to her and see what she thinks of the idea of us recruiting among the Legion of the Dead. She seems to have found the two positions quite compatible herself. Such dwarves would mostly have to remain within the Deep Roads, of course, but a permanent Grey Warden presence down there instead of the current cumbersome system of rotating patrols is not necessarily a bad thing. Though I'd also need to clear it with King Bhelen before undertaking any such recruiting."

He paused in thought for a moment, and then grimaced. "Maker. I'm going to have a lot of running around to do in the near future, between the outbreak in the south and needing to recruit. And I'll want to go to Ostagar and evaluate the Tower for myself, before making any firm decision about it." Not that he really _minded_ travelling; if anything he usually quite enjoyed being able to be out and about in Ferelden instead of cooped up in his office, and apart from the trip north to fetch Alistair it had, in fact, been an almost depressingly long time since he'd last made it out into the field for any length of time. Too busy with training and paperwork and politicking, between being responsible for both the Grey Wardens and the entire Arling of Amaranthine, which included having to manage the volatile Bannorn. Not to mention having to oversee the rebuilding of both the city of Amaranthine and Vigil's Keep itself.

He was looking forward to getting away from all of that for a while, he realized, even if the root cause _was_ a darkspawn incursion. "I'd better write Varel," he said, and caught a look of amusement on Anora's face and a studiously blank look on Cauthrien's. They knew him far too well, he found himself thinking, and allowed himself a small smile as he sipped at his tea.


	22. A Celebratory Occasion

Alistair carefully sipped his tea, glancing from face to face and staying silent. It felt extremely odd to be sitting here, especially with these three; two of whom had tried to kill him, at various points in time, and one of whom Arl Eamon had thought he should replace.

Though perhaps it was stretching a point to say that Ser Cauthrien had ever tried to kill him. True, she and her soldiers had not exactly been overly gentle in arresting Solona and him after they'd killed Arl Rendon Howe while rescuing Anora from the Arl of Denerim's estate, but she hadn't actually tried to harm them any more than was necessary to subdue them. Later she'd backed down rather than trying to prevent them from entering the Landsmeet chamber, which he could only be thankful for. He still had very clear memories of just how nasty a fighter she was to go up against, and very little desire to ever have to fight her seriously again. Especially seeing as he'd been unable to beat her the first time, and had been in considerably better fighting condition back then than he was now. And had had backup.

He wondered why Loghain hadn't dismissed him after they'd finished questioning him about Ostagar. Perhaps Loghain had thought they might have further questions later, though the conversation seemed to have wandered pretty far afield now, into entirely unrelated territory. The three of them were now quietly discussing some minor incident in the Bannorn as if it was vitally important news. Though perhaps it was important; the banns of the Bannorn tended to be a very conservative and touchy lot, and they'd been on the opposite side of the brief civil war from Loghain. They can't have liked having him put over them as their Arl. Plus they were the breadbasket of much of Ferelden, which gave them considerably more political power than they otherwise might have enjoyed for their size. No one wanted to see the grain going unharvested and undistributed, or worse, trampled into the mud or burnt.

So he sipped his tea and nibbled as unobtrusively as he could on the plateful of little pastries he'd been given, nodding thanks when one of the pages came over and silently refilled his cup. They were good at being unobtrusive, he noticed, sitting quietly on their bench over against the wall, slipping over to refill cups of tea or reload plates with food when it was needed, without disturbing the conversation.

He found himself studying Galway, and wondering why Arl Wulff had trusted the fostering of his only remaining son to Queen Anora, when he'd clearly not been at all happy with her father and his actions. Galway, he realized, was listening very closely to the conversation, forehead creasing slightly at intervals as he clearly considered what he was overhearing. Alistair suddenly had to hide a smile, remembering Ser Cauthrien and Loghain just shortly before talking about how Anora's nobles might see any expansion of the Grey Wardens under Loghain as some sort of plot. Perhaps that was why the boy was one of Anora's pages; so that Arl Wulff had a trustworthy ear in her court and would know the reasons behind any actions she undertook. It likely wouldn't hurt the boy's future prospects any to have served in the royal court, either.

Alistair thought about the pages and squires he'd met during their stay here so far. With only a couple of exceptions, they were all the children of nobles, as far as he knew. Corey had explained that almost all noble children spent at least part of their childhood fostered out elsewhere, or at least most of the sons did, serving terms as pages or squires to other noble families that their own had ties with, of blood or trade or political bent. It made connections, he was beginning to realize; not just between the families, but between the pages and squires, who would eventually become knights, banns, arls... for a moment he pictured it, this vast interconnecting web-work that bound the country together, of men who had fostered together as pages, or been knight and squire, or master and page. A web of shared experiences and friendships along which information might flow, following channels that weren't readily apparent at first glance.

A network that Loghain didn't have any real connection into, he realized; commoner born, raised precipitously to become Teyrn of Gwaren and later General of the Armies of Ferelden without any of the formal training that usually backed such positions. And then he'd married a commoner, as well, which meant he's remained disconnected. By the sounds of what Corey had said, he hadn't exactly exerted himself at taking on pages and squires of his own either. And of those he had... well, Ser Cauthrien was as commonly born as Loghain himself had been. Alistair didn't know who else Loghain had ever taken on as a page or squire, but suspected that few of the nobles would have trusted common-born Teyrn Loghain with the fostering of their children, no matter how high King Maric had raised him. Some of his own Banns from within his terynir of Gwaren might have, perhaps... but for all its size, Gwaren was largely wilderness, with just a handful of tiny settlements of no particular political importance scattered around.

The tea in his cup had gone cold, and the three were clearly winding up their conversation. "I'd like to leave by the day after tomorrow, if the 3rd can be ready to depart that soon," Loghain was saying to Ser Cauthrien. "I may as well travel with them, since we're all going to the same destination anyway."

Ser Cauthrien nodded. "They could leave by first light tomorrow if it was necessary – earlier, if it was an emergency – but the day after tomorrow would certainly be better. Will you want those men from the stockade?"

"Yes, but not now. Hold them for me, if you would; I'll retrieve them when I have time to deal with them properly. Or wait, no... send them on to Sigrun. If I do make her commander of a second establishment, she'll have to get used to performing Joinings and dealing with recruits herself. Let her know what their crimes are, too, if you would be so good, so she has some idea of what she's dealing with."

"Of course," Ser Cauthrien said, nodding her head in assent.

Alistair put aside his cup and plate, hastily rising to his feet and bowing to Queen Anora when Loghain did, then followed him out of the room. Loghain was silent at first, clearly lost in thought, then after a while sighed and glanced over at Alistair. "You'll have to pack for us again tomorrow afternoon. For a long trip; Corey can advise you as to what more is needed. Make sure to put anything that needs laundering or mending in the basket by the door this evening, so we'll have it back in time to pack before we leave."

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, and frowned worriedly. He'd only packed enough things for a week, and unlike Loghain, he didn't have a clothes-press or two full of additional clothing on hand. Even assuming he'd mostly be wearing his armour, it would be nice to have a few extra changes of smalls and stockings, if nothing else.

"Remind me to sign you over some of your pay tomorrow morning," Loghain added. "You can visit the market for anything you need for yourself."

That made Alistair considerably happier. He'd almost forgotten that being a Grey Warden earned him money; he'd only been paid a scant handful of times before Ostagar, and after that having any money at all in pocket had mostly involved scavenging anything even remotely saleable from the people and creatures they killed while travelling. Since leaving Ferelden he'd only once been gainfully employed, very briefly, as a mercenary. His career as a sell-sword had been cut short by the discovery that there were things he wasn't willing to do for money. Most mercenary captains, it seemed, preferred hirelings who didn't have qualms about what sort of jobs they took, or what happened to any captives afterwards. He'd been booted from the company as soon as they'd returned to town.

"I've got a few more questions about what you observed in the Tower of Ishal," Loghain said as they reached his rooms, and led the way to small study he had there, gesturing for Alistair to take a seat near the desk. He extracted a set of maps from a cabinet at one side of the room and quickly sorted through them, before coming over and spreading one out, putting little carved stone weights on the corners to hold it flat. "The Tower of Ishal, as of shortly before the Blight," he said, then took sheets of paper and a silver-point pencil out of his desk. "Now, tell me again about what you saw as you climbed the tower," he said.

Alistair was feeling hoarse from talking by the time he'd run through both trips to the tower again, Loghain quizzing him closely on things he'd seen. He was a little surprised at how much he'd noticed in passing, but didn't particularly remember until Loghain prompted him with questions – the condition of the main doors between each floor, areas where he'd noticed major damage, the extent of such, and so forth.

Loghain was looking pleased when he'd finished, and after scrawling a last few lines of notes sat back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It at least sounds as if the tower is still in reasonably good condition, and what damage it's taken should all be reparable. The surrounding ruins themselves should provide more than enough dressed stone for the repairs; it will just be a question of clearing out any wildlife or squatters that have taken up residence in the years since, and hiring in people to do the work. Dwarven stonemasons, by preference, seeing as they built the original structure; better to have it repaired properly than do a slap-dash job of it."

Alistair said nothing, there not being anything useful he could say in response. Anyway, it sounded as if Loghain was just sorting out his thoughts aloud, not expecting any actual response. Then Loghain glanced at the window, and suddenly frowned. "Maker, I didn't realize how late it was getting. I've got a dinner to go to this evening; you'd best accompany me. Go bathe and change into whatever you have that's suitable for court. Be quick about washing, I'll be needing to make use of the bathing chamber as well, and we need to be ready to go in less than an hour" he said, even as he rose to his own feet and began putting away his notes.

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, hurriedly rising to his own feet. He dipped a brief bow to the commander, and hurried off to grab his toiletries and go wash.

* * *

The closest things that Alistair had brought along to court clothes had already been worn a few days earlier, and when he examined the outfit, proved to be in need of laundering before being worn again. He wasn't sure what to wear in its place, until he remembered that he'd packed the griffon-marked tabard that could be worn over his armour on more ceremonial occasions. Armour wouldn't be suitable for wherever Loghain was dragging him off to, not to mention being uncomfortable to dine in; but he had a pair of black leggings, and a white shirt that was still clean, and that together with the blue and silver-grey tabard belted over top looked reasonable, he thought.

He still felt considerably outclassed in appearance when Loghain walked into the sitting room, however. The Arl was dressed in sueded black leather leggings with a shirt of dark blue linen, and a vest of black suede on over top of that, with the warden's rampant griffon worked in silver on the left breast. Loghain looked over Alistair's outfit, and frowned just slightly. "Acceptable, I suppose," he said, then smiled thinly, looking amused. "And at least we co-ordinate. Come, the carriage will be here to collect us shortly," he said, and led the way out of his rooms and downstairs, Alistair hurrying along in his wake.

There was indeed a carriage drawn up in the courtyard in front of the palace, the crest on its door a familiar one. "We're dining with Arl Eamon?" Alistair asked, surprised.

"Yes. A command performance; Anora told me I had to go, or I'd have turned down the invitation," Loghain said with a grimace as they settled into the seats inside. "Politely, of course."

Alistair felt his lips quirking at the very dry tone in which Loghain said that, which implied without actually saying so that he would have vastly preferred to be quite impolite in his refusal. Alistair wasn't entirely certain if he was looking forward to the idea himself or not. Years, since he had last seen the man, and they hadn't been on the best of terms even before he'd stalked out and irretrievably sunk Eamon's plans to put him on the throne. "I'm surprised he'd invite me," he said.

"He didn't. Which is why I'm taking you," Loghain said shortly.

"Oh," Alistair said, and flushed, a combination of anger and shame making him tighten his hands into fists, his jaw setting. It was the same old story, it seemed, Arl Eamon only showing any interest in him when he might be of use to the Arl. He turned and stared silent out the window for the remainder of the ride, not even really aware of the passing cityscape until they pulled up in the courtyard in front of the Arl's estate.

The estate must have suffered some damage during the Blight year, he thought; Arl Eamon had clearly substantially rebuilt the public face of the building, anyway. The arrangement and sizes of doors and windows were still the same, but the previous rough stone walls had been sheathed in smooth, polished stone tiles, with decorative carved stone framing the windows and doors, the old wooden doors replaced with worked bronze. It looked very elegant, and reminded Alistair of some of the finer houses he's seen in places like Ostwick and Kirkwall. Though he could see it was a false face only, the bulk of the house still plain Fereldan construction.

Loghain's face was impassive as he looked up at the building, but he gave a very quiet snort of disgust that almost made Alistair smile again. Clearly he did not think much of the rebuilt facade. Too Orlesian for his tastes, most likely.

The guards at the door were dressed in their finest, glossy silk tabards worked with the Redcliffe crest over top of armour polished mirror-bright, the hafts of their ceremonial pikes tied with ribbons in matching colours. The entry hall was festively decorated as well, with branches of evergreen and more ribbons. "What's the occasion?" Alistair asked quietly, glancing around.

Loghain paused, looking mildly surprised for a moment, then frowned. "I forgot how out of touch you've likely been with Fereldan news. It's to celebrate the name-day of Arl Eamon's second child. A daughter, born this past winter; born early and sickly enough at first that the Guerrin's delayed her naming day until now. I'm not sure if Arlessa Isolde will be here for the celebration or not; word is her health suffered considerably during the birthing."

Alistair nodded. They continued on from the entryway into the main hall, which was even more ornately decorated. Arl Eamon was there witha small receiving line to greet his guests. His hair had turned from steel-grey to pure white since Alistair had last seen him, the lines on his face even more deeply graven. He looked to be a decade or two older than Loghain, and yet Alistair knew he was, in fact, the younger of the two by several years. Arlessa Isolde was with him, her face pale and pinched, hair streaked with white. And Bann Teagan, he was pleased to see, looking much as he had when Alistair had last seen him. He was startled to spot the very young boy in apprentice robes standing beside Teagan, and then noticed the pair of templars standing watchfully among the guards nearby. The tower must have given special permission for Connor to attend the family event.

Loghain waited until the current noble couple talking to the Guerrins had moved on, then led the way to the receiving line. "Arl Eamon, Arlessa Isolde," he said, giving the pair a very precise bow. "My congratulations on the name-day of your daughter. I'm sure you remember my squire, Alistair."

"Indeed," said Arl Eamon, voice a touch frosty, and gave a shallow bow in acknowledgement to the pair of them. "I'm glad that you were able to attend, Arl Loghain. Alistair."

Isolde's lips pressed together, but she bowed politely as well. "Arl Loghain. So kind of you," she said, voice just a shade short of venomous. "Alistair."

"Arl Eamon, Arlessa Isolde," Alistair responded, and bowed deeply. "My congratulations as well. I was very pleased to hear the news of your daughter's birth."

"Thank you," Eamon said coolly, giving Alistair only the slightest nod of acknowledgement. Isolde's hand tightened on his sleeve, and she sniffed, then moved her head fractionally as well, the barest politeness.

He was relieved to continue on to where Loghain was now exchanging pleasantries with Teagan, both men smiling and showing a lot of teeth, though not in any particularly friendly way. The smile Teagan turned on Alistair, however, was entirely welcoming and genuine. "Alistair. I hear you're Loghain's squire now. A bit late for it, perhaps, but I suppose better late than never."

Alistair nodded. "Thank you," he said politely, not being sure what other response he could possibly make that wouldn't sound rude. "Is this Connor? I wouldn't have recognized him if he wasn't standing next to you; he's grown at least six inches."

Teagan smiled, and glanced at his nephew, who was blushing and looking pleased at the attention. "Closer to eight, I'd say. I don't know what they feed their apprentices at the Tower, but clearly it agrees with him."

The boy grinned at his uncle, then dipped a bow at Alistair and smiled shyly. He had crooked teeth, and was clearly at that terribly gawky awkward stage of adolescence where he was all skinny wrists and ankles and too-big hands and feet. Though at least he so far seemed to be avoiding any spots other than a dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose. "I know I should remember you," he said, voice starting deep and then cracking mid-sentence, which drew a grimace from him. "But I don't. Uncle Teagan has told me how you and Solona Amell saved my life, and the lives of my father's villagers. I'm really happy to finally meet you. Meet you again, rather."

Alistair smiled. "I'm pleased to see you again as well," he said, and glanced at the templars nearby. He wished he could talk to the boy longer, find out how he was since the horrendous events of the Blight year, but suspected it would be a topic that the templars would discourage any talk of. "Perhaps we'll have a chance to talk more some other time."

Conner grinned. "I'd like that," he said.

Teagan spoke up. "I'd like to talk to your further later myself, Alistair, if you have time. With your commander's permission, of course?"

Loghain nodded. "I see no reason to object, assuming there's time for it. Come, Alistair, we'd best move on," he added, and nodded politely to Bann Teagan before moving away.

They circulated around the room for a little while, Loghain occasionally stopping to exchange a few words with one person or another. Most of the attendees were from Arl Eamon's political grouping, however, and therefore mostly unfriendly to the ex-Teryn, so the pair of them spent much of the time being ignored by those around them. A handful were rather cold-shouldered to Loghain while pointedly friendly to Alistair. He thought he much preferred the ones who were more honestly hostile to him as well. Apart from Bann Teagan and Connor Guerrin, the only truly welcoming smile he received was from a young man leaning heavily on an ornate cane who purposefully made his way over to them after having passed through the receiving line himself.

"Bann Oswyn," Loghain greeted him, bowing with surprising respect to the young man. "I was sorry to hear about your father. I'm sure you remember my squire, Alistair Theirin?"

"Of course I do," the young man said with a broad smile. "I have always regretted that I never had a chance to more formally thank you and Solona Amell for saving my life," he said, smile changing to a more serious expression, brow furrowing slightly under shaggy blond bangs.

Alistair frowned, trying to place who the young man could be. Oswyn shifted his grip on his cane as he lifted one hand to tuck his hair back, and suddenly Alistair realized where he'd seen him before. "You were that fellow in Howe's dungeon," he exclaimed. "The one being tortured."

Oswyn nodded. "Yes. I owe my life to you and the Hero; I don't think I'd have survived much longer in Howe's hands. As it is I'll bear the scars of my time in that dungeon until my dying day," he said, touching one hand lightly to his leg, before turning back to Loghain, a look of concern crossing his face. "I'd heard that there's been an outbreak of darkspawn in the south. Is it true?"

"Yes, but thankfully a patrol of my men were already in the area at the time; I've already sent more wardens south, and a unit of the army will be going to help as well within the next few days. It's down northwest of Gwaren, so you shouldn't see anything up in the Dragon's Peak bannorn."

"That's good to hear," Oswyn said, looking relieved. "If there is any help the Peak can give, send word."

"I shall," Loghain said, smiling warmly at the young bann.

"You will be going south soon yourself?" Oswyn asked, glancing back and forth from Loghain to Alistair.

"Yes, with the army."

Oswyn frowned slightly. "Ah. As glad as I am that you will be there personally to make sure things will be properly handled, I must admit to being somewhat disappointed; I'd hoped I might borrow your squire long enough some time in the next few days to more properly thank him for his role in my rescue."

Alistair found himself flushing self-consciously. "You don't need to do that," he said. "It was nothing. I mean, it was clearly something to you, but we were there anyway, and..." He stopped, realizing from the overly patient look Loghain was giving him that he was making a mess of things. "I'll just shut up now."

Loghain looked amused. "We're not leaving until the day after tomorrow," he told Oswyn. "You may borrow him for lunch tomorrow, if you wish. Perhaps somewhere near the market – he has shopping to do in the morning, I believe."

Oswyn smiled at Loghain. "That should be sufficient. Thank you," he said, then turned back to Alistair. "There's a very good restaurant that's opened near where the Wonders of Thedas used to be; the Fishwife's Tale. Join me there at midday, if you please," he said, bowed to both of them, and left before Alistair could think of any way to politely refuse.

"Do I have to?" Alistair asked Loghain.

Loghain smiled toothily. "Consider it a command performance," he said. "We've few enough nobles that are as supportive of the Grey Wardens as Bann Oswyn and the rest of his faction is; best not to disappoint any reasonable requests he might have."

Alistair frowned, but nodded agreement. "I'm surprised he supports you at all," he said, and then flushed. It _was_ what he'd been thinking pretty much since realizing who Bann Oswyn was, even if it was hardly the most politic thing to say to Loghain himself.

Loghain's eyebrows rose slightly. When he responded, his voice was flat and cold, and he was enunciating very carefully, as if restraining himself from answering much more forcefully. "Thankfully both Oswyn and his father Sighard were willing to accept my assurance that I'd known nothing of Oswyn's abduction, nor of what use Rendon Howe was making of the Denerim Estate. Nor that I had been behind the disappearances of others, including a number of _my own soldiers_ , which I'd thought were simple desertions, until I learned of Howe's activities." He stopped, jaw clenching tightly, then looked away. "I will never stop regretting that I didn't see him immediately brought to justice for the massacre of the Couslands, when I first returned from Ostagar. Things might have been rather different if I had. Not necessarily better, but at least... some degree less reprehensible."

"Why didn't you?" Alistair asked quietly.

Loghain turned back to him, giving him a very long look, then sighed. "Because I thought I had no choice; I needed support among the nobles to hold the country together following Cailan's death. Arl Howe had become a very powerful man as a result of his conquest of Highever, and more powerful yet when he inherited Denerim after both Urien and Vaughan died. He offered me his support. To my ever-lasting shame, he also played on my well-known distrust of the Orlesians to convince me that Bryce had been involved in a plot to open Ferelden to another Orlesian invasion. I should not have believed him, but I was..." He stopped and looked away again. "I was not exactly thinking very lucidly after events at Ostagar. And Bryce and I had been at odds often enough over the years that I suppose I _wanted_ to believe ill of him."

Alistair bit back a comment on that, then thought of something else. "Do you know that Vaughan wasn't murdered in the alienage?" he asked instead.

Loghain shot him a look. "After the fact, yes. Him being found in a suspiciously freshly dead state in the basement of the Denerim estate made _that_ fact rather obvious. I can only assume Howe locked him up there himself; he certainly gained by it. It gave him control of almost half the country, as the closest living heir to the Kendalls line. It does make me rather wonder if there was anything more than the darkspawn behind Urien's failure to return from Ostagar; though that pair was always very close, close enough that I find it hard to believe he'd murder him," Loghain said, then frowned. "Mind you everyone used to think that Rendon and Bryce Cousland were quite close as well, so it doesn't necessarily signify. Anyway, this is all hardly a fit subject matter for what is supposed to be a celebratory occasion."

They didn't speak further until they were summoned in to dinner, and even then it was mostly just murmured instructions from Loghain about sitting up straighter and which fork to use.

The food was very good, and Alistair was relieved that he wasn't expected to actually talk with anyone during the course of the meal. At one point there was a brief lull between courses, and the baby was brought in, visible only as a lump of lacy cloth from where Alistair and Loghain were sitting. Arlessa Isolde accepted her from a nurse and then passed her to Eamon, who held her up while announcing her name – Rowan Marie-Claire Lenora Guerrin – then passed her back to Arlessa Isolde, who walked her around the high table for their most honoured guests to see more closely. Then she was passed back to the wet nurse, to return her to the nursery.

"That's a lot of history to saddle one small girl with," Loghain said quietly, watching the nurse withdrawing with a curious expression on his face. Alistair gave him a questioning look, and he explained further. "Famous aunt, maternal and paternal grandmothers. I suppose the Marie-Claire is an effort to please Isolde's side of the family, though it's hardly a happy combination of names when tucked in with the other two, considering the aunt and paternal grandmother were mortal enemies of the maternal line. Well, here's hoping the poor mite lives up to the significance at least one of her names; preferably one of the Ferelden ones," he added, lifting his cup and drinking deeply from it.

Alistair lifted his own goblet, which he'd been doing his best to ignore until now. The scent of the dark red wine as he lifted it to his lips was enticing. For a moment he was tempted to drink deeply as well, but after only a brief mental struggle forced himself to just barely wet his lips with a tiny sip, before putting it back down.

"Good boy," Loghain said, under his breath.

Alistair felt about equal parts pleased and offended by the praise, and hated that he was pleased at all by Loghain's approval. "You make it sound like I'm a mabari," he growled back.

Loghain's lips twisted slightly. "My apologies," he said quietly. "A mental habit I've fallen into over the years with those significantly younger than myself; one I've been trying to break myself of, with only limited success. I have to remind myself regularly that all these damnably young-looking people – including yourself – are older than I was when I was involved in the rebellion. Fully adult, in other words." He touched fingers lightly to the stem of his own goblet, eyes unfocussed. "It seems just yesterday, sometimes, and then I have to remind myself just how many years it's been since I was that young."

Alistair wasn't entirely mollified, but he saw no reason to push the point. The remainder of the meal passed in silence between them, though the increasingly raucous conversations going on throughout the rest of the room more than made up for their quietness. Alistair was very relieved when the interminable meal finally drew to a close.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to disappoint Bann Teagan," Loghain said. "That ran far longer than I was expecting, and we both have much to do tomorrow." He flagged down a servant, and gave him a verbal message to carry to Teagan, politely explaining that they'd been unable to remain any longer. After which the pair of them departed, Arl Eamon's carriage once again being put at their disposal to carry them back to the palace. Loghain looked quite relieved to be departing the place; Alistair had to admit that relief was pretty high on his own list of feelings at the moment as well.


	23. A Job Worth Doing

Alistair watched with interest as Loghain sat down at his desk, a slender leather-bound volume in one hand. He set it down on the desk, carefully perching a pair of glasses on the end of his nose before opening it. He flipped through a few pages, then drew a sheet of parchment close and, referring to an entry in the book, which appeared to be an accounts ledger, wrote out a document, then made an entry on the page he'd been referring to. Then he took out a key from his belt, unlocked a desk drawer, and took out a metal box, out of which he counted several stacks of coins; not just silvers and coppers, but several gold ones as well.

"You have more than this due you, but this should be more than sufficient for your current needs," he said, then slid the paper across the desk to Alistair. "Let me know if you somehow find yourself needing more. Sign both halves; for my records and Mistress Woolsey's."

It was, Alistair saw, the same document written twice on the paper, on top and bottom halves. A receipt, acknowledging that he'd received... Maker, _that_ much money!? And Loghain had said this wasn't even all of it. He signed, and signed again. Loghain signed as well, then carefully blotted the document before folding it in half and slitting it into two pieces with his belt-knife, putting one away in his desk with the coin box and sliding the other aside to where a stack of sealed letters lay, then pushed the stacks of coins across the desk to Alistair. "Try not to spend all of it in one day," he said, smiling slightly. "In fact I'd suggest you only take some of it along to the market with you, or you're just as likely to lose it to a cut-purse as spend it."

Alistair nodded as he filled his coin-purse. "I'll be careful," he said, then rose to go.

"Don't forget you're to meet Bann Oswyn for lunch at the Fishwife's Tale," Loghain called after him as he left.

Alistair grimaced, then sighed. "Yes, ser," he said before closing the door behind him.

It was nice to be out of the palace and on his own for once. He took his time walking, looking around at all the changes there'd been since the Blight Year. Even the alienage had been cleaned up some, he saw as he walked by the gateway into it on his way to the harbour bridge, many of the buildings replaced with newer construction, or at least refaced with less flammable materials. It almost looked nice, the huge green-leafed vhenadahl arching over top the neatly stuccoed buildings with their roofs of red tile and clay-coated thatch. It smelled a lot better too; judging by the resurfaced streets he glimpsed, the sewer project had already reached there, doubtless due in large part to its proximity to the noble quarter. Not to mention being upwind of same.

He paused on the harbour bridge, moving to the seaward side and leaning on the railing. He could see the docks from here, and all the ships along them. He thought of the money in his pocket. More than enough that to book passage elsewhere, and surely there must be at least one ship setting out within the next few hours. He could be well out to sea before he was ever even missed.

And then what? Back to drinking himself into a stupor every day?

He stayed there for a while, thinking of the Blight Year, of tramping back and forth across Ferelden in Solona's company, of their companions. Of how sure he'd been that what they were doing was the _right_ thing; something good. Something of value. He inevitably thought, too, of a courting couple near Gwaren, only a couple of years younger than he and Solona had been. Of how few the Grey Wardens of Ferelden were, how thinly spread. After a while he sighed, and straightened up, and continued on to the market.

* * *

The Fishwife's Tale was easy to find, a large new building made of pale yellow sandstone, with a roof of green slate. The slates were almost the same blue-green shade as the scales on the sign that hung out front, of a woman half-human and half-fish, with coiling black hair supplying the necessary modesty for an otherwise nude body.

"May I help you?" a liveried servant asked almost as soon as he'd stepped through the door.

"I'm supposed to be meeting someone. Bann Oswyn."

The servant's eyebrows rose slightly, and he looked rather impressed, to Alistair's surprise. "Indeed. This way, ser," he said, and led the way across the floor, scattered with wide-spread tables of various sizes, and upstairs. There was a wide balcony there, with booths overlooking the floor below, many of which had a length of velvet-covered rope drawn across their door with a sign hanging from it; names, he saw, and recognized a few. Noble names mostly; reserved tables, he supposed.

To his surprise it wasn't at any of these that the servant stopped, but instead, after circling the U-shaped balcony to the far end, took him up yet another flight of stairs, and through a beautifully carved wooden door into a large room with a row of windows overlooking the entire restaurant, both the main floor far below and the balcony. Oswyn was there, seated at a small table near the windows, and smiled warmly at Alistair, rising to his feet to greet him. "Alistair. I'm so pleased you could make it," he said, and waved a well-manicured hand at the seat opposite his own. "Please, join me. Johann, let the cook know we're ready."

"Er... thank you," Alistair said nervously, and took the indicated seat, glancing around the room. It was beautifully decorated, with lovely tapestries hanging on the walls – all muted colours, and displaying fantastical underwater scenes – as well as a much larger table and a row of chairs along the far wall. Clearly it could be re-arranged to serve a much larger party than just the two of them.

"One of the benefits of being part-owner of the place; I can use the party room for private functions whenever it isn't booked for something else. It has much the best view in the place," Oswyn said, sounding amused, and nodded his head towards the nearby windows. "At least if you enjoy watching people."

"And you do?" Alistair asked.

"Yes. I don't much like mingling with people any more; if nothing else, it's damned annoying to try and navigate crowded places with a cane and a game leg. But I've come to quite enjoy watching, at least from a distance. This place is good for that; if I get tired of watching our patrons, the private office has an excellent view of the marketplace. Not, you understand, that I spend all that much time here doing either, having other things I need to do, but I quite enjoy doing so when I have the time."

"Ah," Alistair said, and was saved the necessity of having to try and come up with anything more intelligent to say by the arrival of servants with their first course, crisply toasted little rounds of dark bread topped with thin slices of smoked pink-fleshed fish, or heaps of black fish eggs, or dabs of soft white cheese. There were also vegetables, transformed from simple carrots, radishes and so forth into tiny fish, swans, roses, and other flowers. It looked almost too beautiful to eat.

Oswyn somehow managed to eat the food with his fingers while looking elegant, barely a crumb dropping to the table. It made Alistair feel very self-conscious, when he knew his own efforts were scattering bits everywhere, not just crumbs but the occasional fish egg or fragment of vegetable. Oswyn, thankfully, didn't seem to notice, and instead asked Alistair interested questions about the Blight Year, and his adventures with Solona. That got them through the salad course and the soup, a creamy chowder topped with golden globules of oil that proved deceptive, being highly spiced enough to have Alistair turning bright red and sweating as he worked his way through his serving of it.

"It's not too hot for you, is it?" Oswyn asked, looking concerned.

"No. I just wasn't expecting it to be so strong. It's delicious," Alistair managed to say. And it was, though the heat of it put him in mind of the time Zevran had been on cooking duty and used up most of a bunch of hot peppers in making some rough approximation of an Antivan dish he was feeling homesick for. Only he and Sten had eaten much of it, but between the two of them they'd eaten almost the entire pot full of the spicy concoction, everyone else managing only small servings of it.

The next course was, thankfully, considerably less highly spiced, being some mouth-meltingly tender pot roasted beef with onion gravy, new potatoes boiled in their jackets and mounds of buttered green peas. Even Alistair was beginning to feel rather well-fed by the end of that. He wondered how Oswyn was managing to eat so much, and only belatedly realized that his servings had all been considerably larger than the ones brought for the other man. Oswyn must have heard somewhere about how prodigious Grey Warden appetites were.

Only later did he decide that perhaps that, along with the spicy fish chowder and the restaurant's name, should have made him at least a little suspicious, and therefore somewhat less surprised when a discrete door at the far end of the room opened, and a familiar form stepped into the room. He could only stare open-mouthed as Zevran picked up one of the chairs along the wall, walked over, and set it down beside Oswyn's before joining them at the table.

"Good afternoon, Alistair," Zevran said, then grinned broadly. "Such a pleasure to see you again."

"Maker's tits... _Zevran!?_ What are you doing here?"

Zevran's grin widened at Alistair's reaction; clearly he was pleased with the effect his sudden appearance had had. Oswyn was smiling as well, looking pleased with himself for his part in it. "Making a small fortune as co-owner of an extremely popular restaurant would be the most obvious answer, though not the one you're looking for," Zevran said, then shrugged and sat back in his seat. "Where else was I to go, afterwards? Back to Antiva, where the Crows would doubtless have made short work of me? Orlais, where I would have had the bards to fear as well? Short of travelling beyond Orlais into the far west or even further to the north, this is already the farthest I can get from Antiva."

He paused for a moment, then shrugged again. "I did actually consider it. But then I found myself wondering, why exchange life in one barbarian land for another, when _this_ barbarian land I at least am familiar with now, and have friends in. And I had other reasons to stay by then," he added, and glanced sideways at Oswyn.

Oswyn smiled, his hand moving to cover Zevran's where it rested on the table, their fingers interlacing. Zevran looked at him again, a longer look this time, a warm smile lifting his lips, then squeezed Oswyn's hand before slipping his own free. "Might I have a little time alone with Alistair?" the assassin asked quietly.

"Of course," Oswyn said, rising to his feet. "I'll go talk to the cook about the menu for tomorrow."

"Thank you," Zevran said, then caught Oswyn's arm as he was stepping past Zevran's chair, and drew the young man down into a very heated kiss. Alistair found himself blushing. Nor was he the only one; Oswyn was looking rather red-faced as well when he straightened up again, equal parts self-conscious and pleased judging by the expression on his face. He nodded to Alistair, and hurried out of the room.

"You seem to be pretty comfortably settled in here," Alistair said quietly.

Zevran shrugged, smiled briefly. "Comfortable enough," he said, then a more serious expression crossed his face. "He means very much to me. And I, to him."

"How'd the two of you end up together?" Alistair asked curiously.

Zevran smiled again. "Bann Sighard had heard of Wynne's healing capabilities, and tithed heavily to the chantry so that they might allow her to visit Dragon's Peak, to do what she could to heal the injuries Oswyn had taken in Howe's dungeons. For whatever reason, she asked me to be part of her escort there. I had nothing better to do, so I went," he said, and then flashed a brief smile at Alistair. "Perhaps I was swayed a little by hopes of a closer acquaintance with her magnificent bosom. Regardless, we reached Dragon's Peak, and..." He fell silent for a moment, an odd expression on his face for a moment. "The expression in his eyes. One I knew; he no longer wished to live, after what had been done to him."

Zevran picked up the half-empty goblet sitting by Oswyn's plate, but rather than drinking from it, merely turned its stem in his fingers, gazing down into the wine it contained. "Perhaps I have a weakness for tortured young men. Wynne did what she could to heal his physical wounds. I... I remained, after she left, and healed what I could of the rest. Mostly as just a friend, at first; but there came a time when Oswyn was recovered enough to begin to worry if he could even function as a man any more. The scarring is... rather extensive. So I showed him that yes, he could, and we have been together ever since."

"And you didn't, err... have any problems because of..." Alistair trailed off.

"Because of our relationship? No. Bann Sighard decided he preferred a live and reasonably happy son to one who wished only to die. It helped that I made it very clear to him that I had no designs on... exclusivity, with Oswyn. He was married last fall; she is a quite charming woman, but far more interested in her paints and canvases and slabs of wood than in matters of the bed chamber. We live quite amicably together," he said, and then shrugged again, smiling. "The three of us are rather appallingly domestic, actually."

Alistair smiled back. "And you love it."

Zevran's smile widened. "I suppose I do. But enough of me... it was in order to speak to you that I asked Oswyn to arrange this little get-together. I was concerned when I heard you had been brought back by the Warden-Commander. How are you? Do you need my help?"

Alistair flushed, feeling pleased by Zevran's obvious concern.

"You know, if you'd asked me that a few weeks ago – even a few days ago, really – I probably would have said yes. But... no, I'm fine."

Zevran cocked his head to one side and gave Alistair a thoughtful look. "You are certain? You are happy where you are? Or at least content?"

Alistair frowned, then shrugged. "Not exactly happy, no. And, well, I suppose not quite content either. But willing to stick things out at least a little longer, yes. It's... I loved being a Grey Warden, you remember that. Partly because it was so much better than the only other alternative I seemed to have at the time, but mostly because it felt like something that needed doing, that made things at least a little better for people, even in between blights. I want that again, if I can find it. That feeling of being _needed_."

Zevran's answering smile lit up his whole face, a show of rare emotion for him. "I know how good that feels," he said. "All right. But if you should find, at some point, that you do need my help; let me know. Anything it is within my power to do, I will do."

Alistair swallowed. "Thank you," he said, moved by Zevran's obvious sincerity. "It's more than I deserve. We were hardly close friends before."

Zevran nodded. "Perhaps. But after all we went through together, we were certainly not enemies at the end either. And Solona would have wanted me to help you, and I owe her... everything."

Alistair looked away for a moment. "Were you... at the end, were you there?"

"Yes, to the bitter end. She left some of us to cover the gates – Oghren, Shale, Wynne and Sten – and Leliana and I fought through the city with her and Loghain. It was a nightmare; much of the city was overrun by the darkspawn, parts of it destroyed or in flames or both. We had to fight our way through to Fort Drakon, then up through it to the roof; Riordan had wounded the Archdemon before he died, torn its wing; it had gone to roost there, unable to fly away. Even with help from the armies you and Solona had recruited, it was a very long, hard fight just to get there," Zevran said, and then fell silent, eyes unfocused, fingers toying with the stem of the goblet again. He lifted it, and took a long sip of the wine within. When he continued, his voice was hoarse. "And then we fought it. It was a very difficult battle; it could not fly, not enough to escape the fort, but it could still take to the air enough to move easily between different parts of the roof. Waves of darkspawn came streaming up to defend it, summoned by it I suppose, so that we had to fight both it and the horde. Many, many people died, until finally Loghain brought it down, injuring it badly enough that it could no longer fight, no longer flee."

Alistair sat frozen, imagining the scene.

"Loghain and Solona spoke briefly. And then she turned and ran, caught up a fallen sword, and used it to cut the dragon's throat open from jaw to shoulder, before sinking the blade into its skull. There was... _light_. Blinding light; they say it could be seen from over half of Ferelden, a line of brightness rising into the clouds. And when the light faded, the Archdemon was dead, and so was Solona." He looked down at the goblet in his hands, then set it aside. "It did not end there, of course," he said, sounding tired, and sat back in his seat again. "The darkspawn did not, unfortunately, just melt away into thin air when the Archdemon died, though at least what little organization they'd had largely did. There were still many of them to be killed, and then the bodies to be dealt with, of both darkspawn and people. The city burned for days, afterwards. And then the pyres, and the mass graves... it was a terrible time."

Alistair swallowed thickly, dry eyed. "How did she die? Was it... was it injuries from the fight? Or did the Archdemon kill her when she slew it?"

Zevran gave him a faintly surprised look. "No. There was scarcely a mark on her body. It was the light."

"The light?" Alistair said, voice flat with incomprehension.

"Yes. Whatever that was, it was what killed her, I think," Zevran said. "It was..." He paused and shook his head. "I have nothing concrete to support that belief. It is just how it seemed to happen. She was fine beforehand; tired, as we all were, and very sad, but no more worse injured than any of us; scrapes, bruises, that sort of thing. She had done a very good job keeping us all alive and healed during the fight. And then afterwards... she looked as if she was just sleeping. But she was dead; the other mages there tried to rouse her, but she was gone, her spirit already fled they said."

Alistair swallowed thickly, his eyes filling with tears. He'd imagined her death so many times since hearing she was dead, tormenting himself with his own morbid imaginings about what had happened; about how she'd died, about who or what had killed her. He'd never imagined anything like this; light, and then death.

"It was, I think, a very peaceful death, in the end," Zevran said softly. "She was smiling."

That broke him, the tears finally spilling over. He covered his face, feeling ashamed to be seen crying.

Zevran's chair scraped back against the floor. There was a rattling sound of curtains being closed, and then Alistair felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. "There is no shame in sorrow, my friend," the elf said quietly. "Especially when mourning one you loved."

He cried for some little time then, unable to speak, only vaguely aware of Zevran's hand on his shoulder, the comforting tone of whatever words the elf was quietly murmuring, though not their content. When the tears finally began to subside, Zevran stepped away, picking up and handing him a napkin. "Clean your face," he said, and resumed his seat, refilling his goblet, eyebrows lifting when he went to refill Alistair's as well and saw it was untouched. "You do not drink?"

"Loghain's forbidden it," Alistair said hoarsely. "Considering the condition I was in when he found me... well, I can't exactly blame him."

"Ah. Drinking yourself into a stupor?"

"Yes. Not that it helped. Much."

Zevran snorted, and smiled crookedly. "It never does."

Alistair sighed, and dropped the stained and crumpled napkin on the table. "I should have been there. I shouldn't have left... if I'd stayed, maybe she might still be alive."

"Perhaps," Zevran said, then leaned forward, looking at Alistair very seriously. "But you cannot change the past, no matter how much you might wish to. There is no going back. There is no changing what has been. What _is_. You must learn to go on; to live again, with the knowledge that she is dead, that you cannot change that, and that you must go on without her." He paused a moment, studying Alistair's face, then continued more quietly. "It is not something you can ever forget; nor something you may ever entirely forgive yourself for. But you must allow yourself to begin to live again. You may still wake every morning thinking 'she is dead, and I might have saved her', but you must also learn to say, 'but I am alive, and I must go on without her'. It is hard; it is very hard. But eventually there will come a time when you discover that you are happy to still be alive. That there are things, people, worth having stayed alive for."

"Voice of experience?" Alistair asked, forcing a smile.

"Yes. You are making a good beginning, I think, with deciding to stay where there is something that you feel is worth doing. It makes a difference, or at least it did for me. You and Solona, you gave me that – a job worth doing, a goal. Something outside myself to fight for, to wish to accomplish. It helped me to get past a point where I wished only to die. And now... life is much better now. I have things to do that interest me, I have someone I care for greatly. I still have my regrets, yes, but I have a life again too. And most days, I am very glad to still be alive."

Alistair nodded, his eyes prickling with tears for a moment. "I hope I can say the same, at some point. I'm... it's not as bad as it was. But I don't think I could say the same. Not yet."

Zevran nodded understandingly. "I will trust that some day you will be able to. And now, I think I should go find Oswyn and our dessert. I will be back soon," he said, then rose to his feet. He set his hand on Alistair's shoulder again and squeezed it as he stepped past him, heading to the door Oswyn had left by.

After he had left Alistair sniffled a few times, and wiped his face again, then thought about what Zevran had said; both about Solona's end, and everything else. He drew a few deep shuddering breaths, then purposefully turned his mind to other things. He was feeling much more composed when Zevran returned a short while later, Oswyn behind him, both of them smiling and carrying trays.

Dessert was nice, a variety of fresh fruits cut into bite-sized pieces, with nuts and various kinds of thin little savoury biscuits, and a cheese with a dry white rind and a meltingly soft centre. Zevran had brought spiced tea, and they sat and ate the dessert with their fingers and drank tea and talked, mostly Zevran and Alistair telling tales about the Blight year.

"What happened to everyone else?" Alistair asked after a while. "All the other companions. I know where Oghren ended up, but the rest?"

"Ah. Let me think... Wynne served as an adviser to Anora for a little while, but the chantry objected rather strongly so eventually she went back to the tower, and then last I heard went north into the Free Marches. Shale is with her; the two became friends. Sten returned to Seheron to report to his Arishok. Leliana went back to Orlais in search of that friend of hers, Marjolaine."

Alistair's eyebrows rose. "Strange kind of friendship."

Zevran shrugged. "I am still not sure if Leliana went after her in hopes of reconciling with her, or to kill her after all for what Marjolaine had done to her."

"And Morrigan?"

Zevran frowned. "I do not know. She left us, shortly after you did. Some days before the end, when we were at Redcliffe. I do not know why; I think she and Solona may have argued about something. Solona would not speak of it, she just looked angry and told us Morrigan would not be back."

"I wonder what happened," Alistair said, surprised. "They were such close friends."

Zevran shrugged. "I doubt we'll ever know."

They turned to other subjects after that, Oswyn and Zevran talking about how they'd come to open a restaurant together, and how Oswyn's wife had selected much of the decor. Alistair was feeling in a much better mood by the time the meal finally ended, and he said farewell to the two. He hugged Zevran impulsively, feeling very glad to have seen the elf again.

Zevran grinned. "You'll be giving Oswyn the wrong ideas about our friendship," he chided jokingly. Oswyn laughed. "I am glad to have seen you again, my friend... remember what I told you, yes? If there is anything I can do, even if it is just someone to talk to..."

"Yes. I promise, if I need help, I'll let you know."

"Good. Be well, Alistair."

"You too, Zevran," Alistair said, then bowed to Oswyn. "Bann Oswyn. Thank you. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

Oswyn smiled cheerfully. "And you," he said. "I hope we'll see more of you in future."

Alistair smiled back. "I'd like that," he said, and bowed to the two before he left.


	24. A Further Reunion

"I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back," Loghain said, looking over his reading glasses at Alistair.

"Sorry. We talked a lot longer than I'd thought we would," Alistair said, then cocked his head slightly to one side, giving Loghain a thoughtful look. "When you told me to lunch with Bann Oswyn, did you know that..." He suddenly stopped talking, looking moderately worried.

Loghain snorted. "If you're suddenly wondering whether or not I am already aware that Bann Oswyn is involved with the Antivan, the answer is yes, I know of their relationship. I take it that I was correct in my assumption that Oswyn's great interest in seeing you was not entirely on his own behalf?"

Alistair coloured slightly. "Zevran was there," he admitted. "We talked for a while."

Loghain nodded, pleased that he'd been right. "Good. Oh, and there's been some deliveries for you – from the market, and from Bann Teagan. They're over there," he said, gesturing to a pile of parcels to one side of the sitting room.

"From Teagan?" Alistair said, looking surprised, and went over to the pile. It was obvious which had been sent by the Bann; most of the parcels were simple bundles, wrapped in muslin and tied with string to protect their contents, and beside them, a wooden chest. It was over a yard long, but both narrow and shallow, and very plain, only its smoothly oiled surface and a bit of interlacing on its iron fittings giving it any attractiveness beyond that of a plain wooden box. Actually Loghain rather liked it; Celia had complained more than once about extravagant decoration being used to hide shoddy workmanship. The box was plain, but very well made, the seams between the pieces of wood that had gone into it so finely joined that only the change of wood grain made them obvious.

Alistair knelt down before it, untying the leather thong that held a wooden peg through the hasp, then lifted the lid. "Oh," he said, in a very soft voice, and knelt there as if frozen.

Frowning, Loghain put aside his book and glasses and rose to his feet, walking over to see what had the boy so mesmerized.

There was a layer of cloth on top, covering whatever was beneath; a robe, Loghain realized. One of the Solona's. He froze as well, holding his breath until Alistair finally moved, slowly releasing his grip on the lid of the chest and reaching out to touch the fabric, fingertips just barely touching the surface. His hand moved in a stroking motion along the cloth, then he sighed, and carefully lifted it out of the chest, as it it was some fragile and precious thing.

Loghain swallowed as Alistair held it to him. He started to back away, to leave the boy some privacy, and then saw what had lain beneath it.

"Maric's sword," he whispered, stunned.

Alistair froze, then carefully folded and set aside the robe. "Yes," he said, voice cracking. "It was one of the things we recovered at Ostagar, along with Cailan's armour," he said, and then lifted it out as well. "I left it behind at Arl Eamon's estate after the Landsmeet. I didn't think it was right for me to take it out of Ferelden."

Loghain said nothing, just watched as Alistair's hands curled around the sheathed sword, handling it as reverently as he'd handled the robe. He set it aside, too, and lifted other things out of the chest.

"These were Duncan's," Alistair said, his hands momentarily full of a paired sword and dagger. "And this we found here in Denerim, after killed a demon or abomination of some kind; a very old evil, Solona said it was." He placed that weapon aside too, then reached back into the box again, taking out a book. He opened it and looked at the frontispiece, then laughed, and set it aside. "A romance Wynne liked. She must have forgotten it there."

He covered his mouth with both hands for a moment, then laughed again, briefly. " _Maker._ It looks like Teagan or Eamon simply packed up everything that any of us left behind. I think Leliana sometimes wore this ribbon in her hair. And this whetstone was Sten's." He lifted a half-empty bottle. "Oghren's," he said, and put it aside as well. A bundle of letters next.

" _Oh_ ," Alistair said again, and just knelt there for a long moment, staring at them, then abruptly turned to Loghain, and held them out. "Here. These were Cailan's," he said, voice tight and unhappy.

"Also from Ostagar, I take it?" Loghain asked, surprised, and took the bundle from his hand.

"Yes," Alistair said, voice oddly flat, as Loghain carried them back over to where he'd been reading, needing his glasses. "They were part of what brought us there," he added, as Loghain resumed his seat and began untying the ribbon around the small bundle. "We came across a man, on Bann Loren's land; a group of soldiers were about to kill him, then attacked us when they saw us nearby. He was wounded, but he lived long enough to identify himself as one of King Cailan's guards. He told us of a key that Cailan had entrusted to him, to a chest that had been in his tent; he'd left the key hidden at Ostagar when he'd fled. So we went, and found the key, and then the chest. Maric's sword was in it. So were those documents," he said, and then fell silent again, staring down at his own hands.

Waiting for Loghain's reaction, Loghain supposed, and finished drawing the ribbon free, then picked up and unfolded the first document. "To his Majesty, King Cailan of Ferelden..." he read aloud, then scowled as his eyes flicked to the closing salutation, and he saw that the letter was from Empress Celene of Orlais. He quickly scanned the letter. "Hah!" he exclaimed, and then read aloud the final lines. "My Chevaliers stand ready and will accompany the Grey Wardens of Orlais to Ferelden. At your word the might of Orlais will march to reinforce the Ferelden forces."

Loghain snorted in contempt. "I'm sure they did stand ready; it wouldn't have been the first time Orlais used a Blight as an excuse to annex a neighbouring country, after all. Orlais would have been very pleased to send in their chevaliers by the hundreds, but likely been far less inclined to remove them afterwards. That sort of help we could do without," he said, then put that letter aside and opened the next one, quickly scanning the brief note. "A personal visit? The woman must have been mad," he said, and then snorted again. " _Permanent alliance_. Another way of saying annexation."

He set that letter aside as well, shaking his head at Cailan's folly in having any sort of discussions with Orlais. Especially when he hadn't consulted with any of his advisers about doing so. Loghain sighed. Doubtless the King had wanted to dazzle them all with some sort of brilliant show of diplomatic prowess, to make a point of his independence from their guidance. He might even have somehow managed to do so, though more likely it all would have been a horrible cock-up, Cailan generally being long on charm and rather short on good sense.

He opened the third letter, expecting another missive between Cailan and Celene, eyebrows raising slightly as he recognized Arl Eamon's handwriting instead. Talking of his men being on their way to Ostagar to bolster Cailan's forces. As far as Loghain knew they'd never arrived; or if they had, it had been after the battle was already lost. He nodded approval at Eamon's next words, begging King Cailan to avoid the field, especially the vanguard with the Grey Wardens. Sound advice. Then scowled, as Eamon's following words sunk in. His hands tightened, only years of discipline preventing him from crumpling the letter in his fury.

"That _snake!_ " he exclaimed angrily. "Urging Cailan to put Queen Anora aside? How dare he! And especially on grounds of infertility; I never saw _him_ think of putting aside Isolde, when her inability to carry a child to term was a proven fact, not just malicious rumour. They were ten years married before she finally managed to give him a living son," Loghain spat out angrily, then forced himself to put down the letter before temper had him ripping it to shreds. "The only thing that ever prevented Anora from bearing Cailan an heir was his absence from her bed. We'd have legitimate Theirin's yet if he'd ever done his proper duty by her. Damned _fool_."

He sat silently for a moment, scowling angry at his own clenched hands as he worked to rein in his temper, and finally forced himself to flatten them out, to take a few deep breaths. He looked up, and found Alistair watching him silently, a wary expression on his face. Loghain sighed, then rubbed at his face, feeling suddenly very old and tired. "Never mind me. Thank you for letting me see these letters," he said, and eyed the pile of them warily. "May I keep them?"

"Sure," Alistair said quietly, and turned back to the chest, carefully repacking everything else into it. He hesitated over the weapons, then touched his fingertips to King Maric's sword. "Should I keep this? Or does it belong to the crown?"

Loghain smiled crookedly. "It is a treasure of the Theirin line; Maric found it in the Deep Roads. I will tell you the story some time when I am less... incensed. Keep it, if you like; it's a good sword, and will likely serve you far better than the sword you currently have. I think Maric would be more pleased by one of his sons using it than for it to molder on display somewhere."

Alistair nodded, and left the sword out, though he put the other weapons back into the chest, and replaced Solona's robe last of all, his fingers lingering on the fabric a moment before he shut the lid. "Can I have this sent back to the Keep?" he asked hesitantly as he refastened the chest.

"Of course. I'll have it sent there along with my letters," Loghain said, then sighed, and rose to his feet. "Most of the afternoon gone and you haven't even begun packing for our departure tomorrow. You'd best get to it."

He rose and picked up the letters and his book, and took them off to lock away safely in his desk. And felt oddly warmed by the brief, almost amused sidelong glance Alistair gave him as he left. Only later did he realize why; it was almost the same look as Maric had sometimes given him, when Maric had been feeling particularly entertained by some expected reaction of his for one reason or another. The look that almost invariably ended his anger, and made them both smile instead, unless there was some reason for him to continue at least the appearance of a real rage. Maric had usually enjoyed teasing him about his sudden tempers. And been the only man who could reliably end them, with nothing more than that same faintly amused look.

* * *

Alistair packed his own things first, because at least there the decisions were very easy – pack everything. He kept out only a night shirt to sleep in, a change of smalls and stockings for the next day, and the gambeson and leggings to wear under his armour. Then he went to Loghain's bedroom, and began hauling out things to pack for him. He wasn't sure how much to pack; obviously not everything, or they'd need an entire train of pack mules for their gear.

At least two weeks worth, he decided after some thought. Plenty to travel with, and most likely in any given two-week period they'd stop _somewhere_ where laundry could be done. He counted out smalls, and pairs of stockings, and then a few plain shirts and leggings since he hoped they wouldn't be in armour all the time. Nightshirts, too, though only a few of those, since Loghain seemed to prefer sleeping in rather less; in fact he was moderately surprised to see that the man even owned any. Maybe he only wore them when the weather was cold.

He was trying to decide how much, if any, nicer outfits he should pack – surely they'd be stopping somewhere at some point where fancier clothing might be needed – when Loghain came into the room himself, and stopped to glance over the stacks of things on his bed.

"Good choices so far," Loghain said approvingly, then seemingly noticed which clothes-press Alistair was currently standing in front of. "Pack three good outfits, one of them black," he instructed.

Alistair nodded, and picked carefully, remembering everything Corey had taught him about making such selections. Loghain nodded approval as he lay his selections down on the bed. "I'll want two spare gambesons, and the same of the quilted leggings; I likely won't need them, but if the weather turns foul it's nice to have a couple of changes before you have no choice but wearing the already damp ones. And find my rain cape; it's probably in that chest over there. Do you have one?"

"A rain cape? No," Alistair said, and frowned. He should have thought to buy one this morning.

"There should be an older one of mine in there too, you can borrow it. A little shabby, but it's still well-waterproofed."

Alistair nodded, and went digging through the chest, finding the newer rain cape at the top, and the older one several layers down, under a much-patched woollen cape that might have been black originally but was now a faded dark grey. "Andraste's holy arse," Alistair exclaimed when he lifted up the rain cape and saw the item of clothing under it, then flushed in embarrassment as he remembered Loghain was only a few paces away.

"What?" the man said, walking over, and glancing down into the open chest. "Hah! I'd forgotten I still had that," he said, and leaned down to pick it up between thumbs and forefingers, mouth curling in a sneer as he lifted up and shook out the garment. "A congratulatory gift, from Emperor Florian of Orlais, sent on the occasion of my being named Teyrn of Gwaren. A rather pointed gift; I'm told it contained three different well-hidden poison-tipped needles. Though why he imagined I'd ever wear such a ludicrous garment escapes me. But then, they do say he was quite mad prior to his assassination. I'd say this cloak certainly lends credence to the rumours."

It was certainly a very _colourful_ garment, Alistair found himself thinking, made of heavy satin dyed a rather brilliant yellow, with a mantle of bilious green wyvern skin over top, the Gwaren wyvern crest picked out on the back of it in brilliant green and orange-yellow stones. It was lined in a dark orange fabric, with a red fringe along the bottom hem.

"Those aren't real gemstones, are they?" Alistair asked, appalled.

"Hmmm? No, mostly glass and a few semi-precious stones. There was the matching mask, too, which was shaped like a wyvern's head, as I recall. I took great delight in consigning it to a bonfire," Loghain said, and studied the garment briefly, then snorted, and smiled crookedly. "I've often wondered if Florian actually thought this terrible thing was in good taste, or if he assumed that as an ex-commoner I'd be overwhelmed by its bright colours and shininess, and feel as attracted to it as some poor senseless magpie to a bit of shiny metal."

Alistair found himself grinning. "Why'd you keep it?"

Loghain shrugged. "Why not. It's something to sneer at. And Anora liked to look at it when she was a child. It made her laugh," he said, then dropped it back into the chest. "Come, let's finish packing," he said, turning away.

Loghain helped with folding things and packing them away, the two men working silently together, apart from a couple of times when Loghain thought of something else he wanted packed, and told Alistair to go fetch it.

"Good, that's done," Loghain said after they'd tied shut the last pack. "Ready for supper yet, or are you still stuffed from that late lunch?"

"I could eat again," Alistair cautiously agreed.

Loghain nodded. "Good. I'd hoped to dine with Anora tonight but she's having one of those interminable state dinners to impress some envoy from the Free Marches, so I decided to give it a pass. Go down to the kitchen and scrounge up something for the pair of us; nothing too fancy, but do remember we'll be eating army rations for the next few days while we're travelling to Gwaren."

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, and went down to the kitchen. If army food was anything like what they'd eaten during the Blight year, he could expect a lot of simple soups, stews, and pottages. Not to mentioned things like hard tack and dried fruit, and damned little fresh meat or vegetables.

According, after finding out from one of the cooks what was available, he selected some roasted goose, white beans simmered in broth with leeks and onions until tender, and some root vegetables oven-roasted after being tossed with a little oil and salt, a mix of potatoes, yellow turnips, parsnips, and carrots. For dessert, a dark spice cake studded with cherries and topped with custard sauce. A bottle of white wine for Loghain to drink with the meal, and a tankard of small beer for himself. One of the pages carried up the drinks, while he managed the tray of food.

Loghain didn't talk much during the meal, seeming largely lost in thought. Alistair wondered if it was the letters he'd shown him earlier that Loghain was thinking about, then after a while decided they probably weren't; the commander looked relaxed and thoughtful, not tense or angry.

They had just started in on their dessert when there was a knock at the door. "Enter!" Loghain called, and one of the royal pages came into the room.

"Beg pardon, ser, but there's a delivery for you. The man says you need to sign for it."

"What man?"

"He's waiting in the hallway, ser. Shall I show him in?"

"Yes, please do," Loghain said, pushing aside his dessert and rising to his feet.

The man who entered was old, dressed in plain, well-worn clothing. A brindled brown mabari was walking along at his heels, head up, looking around alertly. Alistair froze, his own fork dropping forgotten to the table. It couldn't be. It was.

" _Crunch!_ " he exclaimed, rising to his feet. Solona's mabari, named after what he did to creatures and people he didn't like. The mabari's head snapped around, pale gold eyes focusing on him, and then the mabari launched itself into motion, charging directly for him. He just had time to move a couple of hasty steps away from the table, a disbelieving laugh escaping him, before the dog launched itself at him, knocking him over backwards to the floor.

Had he been a darkspawn, or some other creature the giant dog had taken a dislike to, that would have been followed up by shredding and kicking motions of all four legs, as well as his throat being ripped out by the dog's massive jaws. Instead it was followed up by whining, wiggling, wrestling, tail-wagging, nose-digging and a lot of licking, Alistair laughing as he fended off the beast's intrusive nose and overly wet tongue. It was several minutes before they stopped squirming around, Alistair laying on his back with the dog half-on him, massive forequarters pinning him down, hind legs stretched out on the floor and stub of tail wagging furiously while Alistair's fingers dug into the dog's ruff and scratched his neck and around the base of his ears.

Alistair twisted his head around so he could see Loghain. The man who'd brought Crunch was already gone, Loghain standing there watching him and Crunch with a very definitely amused expression on his face. "What's he _doing_ here?" Alistair asked.

Loghain smiled crookedly. "Joining us. He's been in my care since Solona died; he's just back from doing his annual duty at the royal kennels."

Alistair frowned, and looked at Crunch, then back to Loghain. "He's imprinted to you?" he asked.

"No," Loghain said, then walked over and resumed his seat at the table. "He's his own dog. Solona asked me to look after him, and told him he was to stay with me, so he has."

"Oh," Alistair said, and scratched more vigorously at Crunch's ears, which made one of his hind legs start thumping against the floor.

"Are you planning to stay down there the rest of the evening, or return to the table and finish your dessert?" Loghain asked, sounding merely idly curious.

Alistair blushed, gave Crunch a final scratch, then pushed at him. "Off of me.. off, Crunch!"

The mabari snorted, and nosed the side of his head one last time, snuffling wetly, then heaved himself off of Alistair, allowing him to rise to his feet. He brushed at his clothes, aware he was covered in dog hairs and dust from the floor and then resumed his seat, retrieving his dropped fork and then frowning at the smear of custard it had left of the table. He wiped it up with his napkin, then resumed eating.

Crunch stood watching both of them, then walked over and settled his head on the edge of the table between them, eyes rolling back and forth, and whined.

"No," they both said, equally firmly.

Loghain tried not to look amused, but failed, his lips twitching into a smile again. Alistair ducked his head and concentrated on his dessert, aware he was grinning like a fool, and for once not really caring.


	25. Riding South

It was good to wake up in the pre-dawn darkness the next morning and see Crunch still sprawled out on the floor beside the bed, his back pressed against the drawers and cabinet underneath it, paws twitching slightly in his sleep. The mabari woke as soon as Alistair tried to get past him, and heaved himself upright, forepaws resting on the edge of the bed as he tried to lick Alistair's face again. Alistair laughed quietly, and fended him off, then gave him a good scratching before pushing him back to the floor and rising to his own feet to dress for the day ahead.

Loghain was already up and half-dressed when Alistair entered to help him with his armour, and paused long enough to properly greet Crunch himself, bidding the dog good-morning and scratching his ears briefly as well, before pulling on his gambeson. Crunch moved aside, sitting down out of the way and watching attentively as the two men helped each other put on their armour, then rose again and barked once they were both fully dressed. "Yes, time for breakfast," Loghain agreed, and led the way out to the main room, where servants had already set out a meal for the three.

Alistair ate heartily, aware that it would be a long time and many miles of travel before they stopped to eat again. Loghain ate just as heavily, working his way through an equal mountain of food. When he was finished, he split several of the leftover biscuits, and made crude sandwiches out of cheese and fried sausages, wrapping them in a napkin and hiding them away in one of his belt pouches. Alistair, after just a brief moment for thought, did the same.

"Check your bed to make sure you haven't forgotten anything," Loghain said, and headed back to his own bedroom, presumably to do the same.

Apart from needing to fold his nightshirt and find room for it in his own luggage, Alistair didn't find anything he'd missed. Loghain reappeared from his room with his weapons equipped, so Alistair followed his lead and belted on his sword – his father's sword – and hooked his shield onto its harness.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Loghain opened it, and a group of servants came in, dipping their heads perfunctorily to the two wardens before gathering up their packs and chests to carry downstairs. Loghain and Alistair followed them, Crunch at their heels, down and out the back to the palace stables. It was still the grey of pre-dawn, the stable yard lit by lamps, a little early morning mist only just beginning to rise.

Queen Anora was there, simply dressed, wrapped in a cloak against the morning chill and with her hair still in a single long braid from sleep. Loghain smiled. "Wait here," he told Alistair, and walked over to her. She turned when he reached her, the pair walking across the stable-yard, talking quietly together while the servants loaded his and Alistair's belongings onto their pack mules. Alistair watched the servants at work for a little while, then turned when he heard the sound of additional hooves on the cobblestones, their horses being led out of the stable. He froze, staring.

"Maker's balls," Loghain exclaimed softly from a few feet away, voice full of a combination of shock and reverence.

"I've been planning to give you a better horse for some time," Anora said, voice warm with amusement. "Do you like him?"

"Very much... where on earth did you get such a magnificent animal?" Loghain asked, walking forward, eyes glued to the large grey dun stallion in the lead.

"I imported him from Antiva, of course. One of several horses I bought to improve Ferelden stock; he's been standing at stud at the royal horse farms since his arrival. I'll have to insist you breed him whenever the opportunity presents itself, of course."

"Naturally," Loghain said, sounding amused, and stopped by the stallion, accepting his reins from the groom, before pulling off one gauntlet to reach up and allow the horse to sniff and nose at his hand, keeping a wary eye in case the stallion proved to be a biter. "Does he have a name?"

"A very long Antivan one, yes. They've been calling him Silk at the farm, I'm told, for the gloss of his coat. Rename him if you wish, it scarcely matters what he's called outside of the pedigrees of his foals."

Loghain patted the horse's neck. "I'll have to give it some thought; he deserves a name as fine as he is. And the other horse?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and looking at the blue roan gelding one of the grooms was still holding.

"I thought Alistair needed a better horse, if he was going to have to keep up with you when you're riding that one. And Brunnera looks quite well paired with yours."

Loghain snorted. "Thank you, on both our behalves," he said, then turned to look at Alistair. "We'd best get a move on, the army marches early."

"Yes ser," Alistair said, and hurriedly walked over to accept the reins of his gelding, scarcely believing that such a fine horse was going to be his to ride. He took a couple of minutes to introduce himself to the gelding, and double-check that his tack was all fastened snugly enough, then swung up into the saddle. Loghain, having done much the same last-minute check of buckles, was in his own saddle only seconds before. He lifted the reins and rode the stallion once around the yard, a smile of pleasure on his face, then stopped by Anora.

"Thank you. He's magnificent," Loghain said.

A brief grin flashed across Anora's face. "As that's the second time you've called him that, I will believe you like him."

"Very much," Loghain assured her. "Well. I'll see you when we return."

Anora nodded. "Be careful, father," she told him quietly.

"As always," Loghain said, then dipped a very respectful bow towards her. "My Queen."

Alistair bowed deeply as well. "Queen Anora. Thank you."

She gave him a brief smile, nodding in acknowledgement, then moved off to the side, out of the way of the horses and mules. One of the grooms fastened the lead rope for their mules to Alistair's saddle, and the pair of them moved out, around the side of the palace and out the main gates, continuing on to the gate that took them through the wall around the noble quarter, and then westwards to the keep they'd passed through on their entrance to the city almost a week before. They rode through the keep and crossed to the north bank over one of the bridges again, the eastern sky showing the colours of dawn now, to where a unit of the army was drawn up in their ranks in the practise grounds. Ser Cauthrien was there, looking over the troops that were waiting to depart. A small unit of mounted soldiers, of which Ferelden never seemed to have enough, especially when their traditional enemy was the chevaliers of Orlais. Perhaps fifty or sixty riders in total, plus close to a dozen muleteers leading trains of mule with the supplies for them all. No waggons; this was a unit meant for fast movement.

Loghain brought them to a stop to one side, watching while Ser Cauthrien finished her review of the group. "Wait here," he told Alistair when she was done, and rode over to talk briefly with her, and the man who was apparently the commander of the unit, before riding back to rejoin Alistair. A brief wait while the soldiers all mounted up, and then then they rode out, Loghain keeping them behind the column of soldiers until they'd left then city, then guiding their mounts around the moving mass of them and up to the front to ride with their commander, Crunch loping easily alongside, investigating the ditches and hedgerows when the mood took him.

"Captain Dorn," Loghain said, exchanging a nod of greeting with the man. "This is my squire, Alistair."

The man gave him an evaluative look, then a brief nod of greeting. "Alistair Theirin, isn't it?"

"Yes ser," Alistair said, and at a brief look from Loghain, bowed in his saddle. "Captain Dorn."

One side of the man's mouth twitched slightly, then he clearly dismissed Alistair from his thoughts and turned to Loghain, the two men quickly moving on to an intense discussion of what they could expect to find in the south. By a few references they made to previous battles they'd been involved in, Alistair quickly realized that they knew each other well; doubtless Captain Dorn had been one of the many soldiers who'd served under Loghain during his years as the General of the Armies of Ferelden.

They didn't travel as quickly that day as they would have if it was just the two of them; it is a truesim that a army generally moves at the speed of its slowest members. There was also no reason for them to push hard and tire out the horses in an effort to get south any faster. They moved mostly at a walking speed, occasionally varying it as the road conditions allowed, and rested the horses regularly, as well as spending most of one hour with everyone on foot and leading their mounts, to give the horses a longer rest without sacrificing too much mileage to the necessity of it. By the time they stopped for a mid-day meal – cold army rations of hard tack and dried meat, making Alistair glad of the biscuit sandwiches he had – they were already well south of Denerim, beyond the Drakon River valley and the ridge of the Southron Hills, and following a road that circled the foothills of Dragon's Peak.

"The Dragon's Peak bannorn keep is just over that next ridge," Loghain mentioned to Alistair, gesturing toward it as they resumed travel after eating. "A rather impressive structure. It's fallen to siege several times, but never to a direct assault."

Alistair glanced curiously at him. "You seem to have known Bann Sighard rather well. And now Bann Oswyn."

Loghain nodded. "Of course. My teyrnir bordered on his lands; Dragon's Peak is immense for a mere bannorn. It would have been an arling of its own, if not for its proximity to the Arling of Denerim and some historical nonsense that made it prudent to keep one of Oswyn's ancestors under the Arl of Denerim's thumb in that generation. Also the fact that much of it is uninhabited forest. This part here around the peak is all cleared farmlands, but further south you mostly just find woodsmen, trappers and Dalish. Anyway, our political inclinations largely marched together; we were allies in the Landsmeet far more often than we ever opposed each other. One of the reasons why he believed me when I assured him that I'd had nothing to do with Oswyn's abduction and torture; it was a damned idiotic way to treat the son of a long-time ally. Mind you it was months after the Blight ended before his temper had receded enough for him to be willing to listen to me at all, so that I could even attempt to apologize to him for it."

"If it wasn't something you'd ordered done, than why'd you apologize?" Alistair asked, confused.

"Because it happened under my command. A good commander is responsible for his men, not just when they do what he tells them to, but also when they do things he never would have ordered or even had expressly forbidden. Part of being in command is controlling your people. I failed to control Howe; worse, I didn't stop him when I could have, after Highever. Therefore his actions are my responsibility," he said, and fell silent for a few paces, a strange look briefly crossing his face. "I hope I did not merely turn a blind eye to his actions; that any signs of his cruelty and madness I missed were missed honestly, not through some secret desire of my own that he carry out any of the things he did."

"Wouldn't you know if you did?" Alistair asked.

Loghain sighed. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I was not exactly at my best, after Ostagar... and the mind has a phenomenal capacity for self-deception, at times. We'll scorn actions in others that we excuse in ourselves, ignore warning signs that would otherwise let us know that someone was not who we thought they were merely because we _like_ them, or at least want to think well of them. One must continually ask oneself if one's perceptions are based in observed fact or in wishful thinking. And sometimes, no matter how careful we are, we end up being wrong."

He fell silent for a little while, lost in thought, then smiled, and glanced sideways at Alistair. "Your father always wanted to believe the best of people, even when hard experience had shown him time and time again that believing the best wouldn't necessarily stop them from being and doing their worst. And yet in a peculiar way, it worked for him; it was like a special magic he had, part of his charm. Many of us, faced with him expecting us to be better than we were, changed ourselves to try and live up to his vision of us, rather than living down to our own. A part of his personal magic; that he saw the good in people, and made us want to believe in it too."

"You include yourself in that?" Alistair asked, mildly surprised.

"Of course I do. My entire life has been shaped by Maric's presence in it. Not just because of the obvious things like him forcing me to become Teyrn of Gwaren, but all the subtle things as well. I would have charged the gates of the Black City with him if he'd ever asked it of me, and not least because of how much I wished to never fail his idea of me. I had to, occasionally; there were times when I needed to tell him truths he didn't wish to hear, or undertake actions of which I knew he'd likely disapprove. He was no more a perfect man than you or I, and as prone to self-doubt or self-delusion. But overall, being his friend made me a far better man than I'd have been if he'd never fallen into my life. I am... very grateful, for having had the privilege of knowing him. I can only hope that he was overall more thankful than regretful about knowing me."

He fell silent again. When he next spoke, he changed the subject. "Look, there's the keep," he said, and gestured off toward the peak.

The keep was only visible from here as a grey outcrop at the top of a distant steep rise, a spattering of colours around its walls marking the varicoloured roofs of the town nestled under its looming walls. Even from here it was clear that it was a very large building. Strange to think of Zevran living there, and yet at the same time not strange; it was easier to picture the elf living a life of ease and luxury in a fair-sized castle than eking out some meagre existence in an alienage, for instance. Alistair found himself smiling; trust Zevran to have landed on his feet. Lover to one of the nobles of Ferelden.

Loghain rode off to talk further with Captain Dorn after that, so Alistair's afternoon passed mostly in just watching the passing landscape, talking to Crunch whenever the dog chose to remain close at hand, and managing the string of mules, who thankfully were largely content to just amble along behind his gelding. Only when the sun was beginning to sink below the forested hills off to their west – another part of the Southron Hills – did they finally move off the road, into a fallow field. Loghain reappeared at Alistair's side before he'd barely had time to wonder what he should be doing.

"We'll be setting up over there, beside Captain Dorn's tent," Loghain instructed him, pointing to where a couple of soldiers were already spreading out a large bundle of canvas.

Alistair nodded, and followed him over to the indicated spot. Together they removed their own tent and necessary supplies from the mule carrying it, one of the army muleteers showing up soon afterwards to lead off the remaining beasts to be cared for with the army's mules, which greatly relieved Alistair; he hadn't been looking forward to offloading them, removing the pack saddles, and caring for that many mules on his own.

He and Loghain soon had their own small tent raised and gear stowed away within, the two-man tent looking insignificant next to Captain Dorn's considerably larger tent; a command tent, big as a small cottage, big enough to walk around upright inside and hold meetings in.

"Should I construct a fire-pit?" Alistair asked, looking around their very bare camp site.

"No, no need; we'll be dining with Captain Dorn each evening, and sharing the soldier's fare for our other meals. Look after our horses, and then whatever time remains until the evening meal is yours to do with as you chose."

Alistair nodded, and saw to unsaddling their horses, changing their bridles out for simple halters, and pegged them down on long ropes for the night a short distant from their tent, in an untrampled area with plenty of clover and grasses for them to graze on. He checked their hooves for stones and shoes for loose nails, then spent a pleasant time simply grooming the pair of them, Crunch sprawled out chin-down on the ground nearby and watching. Around him the army camp sorted itself out into neat groups of tents, arranged like the petals of a daisy around individual cook-fires. The horses and mules were staked out in clusters around the outskirts of the camp, and the air was full of the smells of food cooking. He went and sat down under a nearby tree once he'd run out of things to do, smiling when Crunch followed him over and settled down with his head in Alistair's lap.

"I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but I could wish for a more attractive head in my lap. And preferably one less drool-y," Alistair informed the dog as he scratched at his ruff.

Crunch snorted, and merely wedged his chin more uncomfortably into Alistair's thigh.

* * *

Alistair was woken from a nap by something prodding his leg, and opened his eyes to find it full dark and Loghain standing over him, the toe of his boot just easing backwards from Alistair's leg. "Time to eat," Loghain told him, and turned away.

"Right," Alistair said, then rose to his feet, yawned and stretched, and started to follow him away. Then paused, looking around with a frown. "Where's Crunch gone?"

Loghain snorted. "Knowing him, he's off busily cadging tidbits from half the soldiers here. He'll show up again when he feels like it."

Alistair nodded, and continued on, taking a few faster steps to catch up with the commander, falling in to place a step behind and to one side.

"Dust yourself off, you've dirt and bits of grass down the back of your armour," Loghain told him, which Alistair hastily did, so that he looked presentable by the time they arrived at Captain Dorn's tent.

They weren't the only people dining with the captain; a number of other soldiers were there as well, men and two women of assorted ranks, all of whom greeted Loghain as one well-known to them, while Alistair had to be introduced by Loghain. Not individually, just a simple "My squire, Alistair," and a brief wave in his direction before Loghain moved to take his seat at the table. Alistair was seated beside him.

A pair of soldiers acted as stewards, bringing in and serving the dinner, which proved to be a hearty stew of beef and vegetables with dumplings. Better than Alistair had expected, but doubtless that was because they'd only just set out and had some quantity of fresh beef that had been brought along with them; he suspected the menu would drop down to salted, smoked and dried meats or fish within the next day or two. The stew was followed by a sweet dessert, a simple pudding of a plain dough cooked in a sweet syrup, sticky and filling. The same dough as the dumplings, as far as Alistair could tell by taste.

There was wine served after the meal, a dusty dark-green bottle of it passed from hand-to-hand around the table for each person to pour their own serving from, the murmurs of appreciation making it clear that this was something special in the way of wine. When it reached Loghain, he poured for himself, and then to Alistair's surprise poured a small serving for Alistair as well before handing him the bottle and indicating that he was to pass it further down the table. No one was drinking yet, though they were holding their goblets. Alistair lifted his as well, and waited.

Only once everyone was holding a drink did Captain Dorn rise to his feet, holding his goblet up in front of him in a toast. "For the Crown, and for Ferelden."

"The Crown, and Ferelden," everyone around the table echoed, then drank from their goblets.

The wine was a red so dark it bordered on purple, the flavour intensely sweet and fruity; not grape-like at all, but some other flavour. Plum, perhaps, or cherry. And very strong wine, too. He held it on his tongue briefly, enjoying the flavours and the way it fumed up into his nose, before finally swallowing. He wished he had more than just a mouthful of it, but contented himself with taking small sips to stretch out the pleasure of it.

Afterwards there was talk for a little while, Loghain and Dorn speaking of what the army could expect to see once they reached the site of the outbreak near Gwaren. It was quickly obvious that at least some of the people gathered there had been in the area before, as they spoke of specific landmarks, hills, ravines, watercourses and the like, without any need of a map. Alistair found himself considering how Loghain rarely seemed to need one at all, unless he was showing something on one to someone unfamiliar with an area. He did seem to like them; both his study at Vigil's Keep and in his rooms at the palace had plentiful maps on hand. But he didn't seem to _need_ them to know where he was.

Perhaps Loghain remembered places he'd seen so well that he didn't actually require a map. Alistair considered his own travels in Ferelden, trying to piece together a mental image of everywhere he'd been. It was tricky; places he knew quite well, like the area around Redcliffe, he could easily picture in great detail. Or places that were memorable for one reason or another; the ruins at Ostagar, or that place in the Deep Roads where they'd found and fought the broodmother. But most of the places they'd trekked through that year were just a sort of vague "this was forest", or "boring grasslands" or "here be swamp-witches" in his head. He tried reconstructing even just what he'd seen today, which felt like it should be easy, but proved to be much harder than he'd imagined. He'd watched the scenery going by, but he hadn't really been _looking_ at it; nor really paying all that much attention to it. There'd been that funny-shaped rock beside the road, but had that been before or after the long curve where they could see the river? He was certain the curve had been followed by a twisty bit up a hillside, and then a long gentle downhill slope, but hadn't there also been a distinctive lightning-blasted maple somewhere in that stretch...

"You've been very quiet this evening," Loghain said as they walked back to their own tent afterwards. "Did the conversation bore you?"

"No, not at all. But I started thinking about something else. Not because the conversation wasn't interesting," he hastily added, "But because it made me start wondering about something else."

"Yes? About what?"

"Well, about maps actually. None of the people there seemed to need one."

Loghain gave a short, surprised laugh. "No, most of them don't. Well, some of them do, but they'll have been studying the maps of the area since they got word that they were being sent south, and talking to those who've been there before, and by now be as familiar with the lay of the land as they can be without having actually walked it themselves. The rest have been there before, for one reason or another, so they're already familiar with the landscape around there. But surely you figured that much out?"

"Yes, more or less. Mainly I was wondering just how well someone could remember what they'd seen; how detailed a map someone could carry around in their head."

Loghain actually smiled, looking amused. "Very detailed. In the course of my life I've trampled over most of Ferelden at some time or another; I dare say you could drop me anywhere in this country and within a very short time I'd have spotted landmarks I know and have some idea of where I was. Or name a place to me, and I can tell you all the major landmarks in its area."

"Lothering?"

Loghain gave a short bark of laughter, looking genuinely amused. "Ask me a hard one. You're clearly forgetting your history, or were never taught it; Lothering is where I grew up, where Maric and I first met. My father and most of the rebels he'd led are buried on a hilltop south-east of town; a bald-headed hill rising above the forest, shaped like an egg on its side, pointed end down, and with a cluster of broken rocks at the rounded end. We escaped through the rocks, while my father and his rebels held off the Usurper's soldiers."

"I'd forgotten," said Alistair, feeling abashed. He had known that; he just hadn't remembered it until too late. They'd reached their tent, and Alistair considered further, while he helped Loghain to remove his armour. Some place he knew well enough himself to be able to know if Loghain had the landmarks right or not... "Have you ever been to Rainesfere?"

"Bann Teagan's lands? Of course. Any place in particular?"

"There's a large farm a couple miles east of his keep, on a rise by the river..."

"The apple orchards? A lovely place," Loghain said agreeably, and having set the last piece of his own armour aside, began helping Alistair with his own buckles. "It may have changed since I was there, that was... Maker, over a decade ago. The river curves there, turning northwards. There's a ford just after it straightens, mostly large cobbles back then though I've heard he's since had gravel dumped to make the footing safer. A very defensible ford, too, the land on the Rainesfere side of the river being higher, and the road having to rise up through a slot in the bank," Loghain said, and continued on to give as detailed a description of the area as if he was there, with it before his eyes. They were in their bedrolls long before he finished speaking.

Listening to the recitation amazed Alistair. Some of what Loghain described he recognized; others were things he'd never noticed when he was there, on that one autumn visit Eamon had made to his brother's bannorn. Some things he'd seen and forgotten, until Loghain described them. He noticed, too, that much of Loghain's recitation focused on how defensible certain key places were, or could be made – the ford, a place where the road to the keep passed through a narrow place in the hills, a ruined tower with a good view of the road and river.

"How do you do that?" He asked when Loghain finally fell silent. "How do you remember it all?"

"A simple trick of the mind. I pay attention to what's around me; the shapes and directions of things, where they are in relationship to each other. Where I'd place men, if I had to defend it. And then later, once I have time, I review what I saw earlier, to set it more firmly in my mind. Your father did it as well, though he remembered the landscape in more of a broad strokes sort of fashion. He'd remember that there was a hill, and a river that curved and a ford, but not necessarily the shape of the hill or the depth of the ford or how the footing was. He used to say it was because he had to pay attention to the big picture, so he left all the fine details to me to worry about. Celia once said..." He broke off.

The silence stretched out. Celia had been Loghain's wife, Alistair remember, dead years ago. "She said?" he prompted quietly after a while, too curious not to pry.

When Loghain responded, his voice was very quiet. "Celia once said I remember the shape of the land so well, because I loved it so much. I suppose she may have been right. Maric also loved this land; how could he not? It was _his_ , after all. Anyway, whether or not you care for the country, it's easy enough to learn how to remember what you've seen. I expected it of all my officers; you may lose a physical map to misadventure, but the one in your head will still be there and serve you just as well. Anyway, it's getting late, and we had a long day today and face an equally long one tomorrow. Best we get some rest."

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, and fell silent for a while. "I'd like to learn that trick," he finally said, very quietly.

A soft snort from Loghain. "Then I'll teach it to you," Loghain said, sounding both amused and approving. "Good _night_ , Alistair."


	26. Change of Weather

Something had changed about the boy since Denerim. He seemed much less unhappy the last few days. Loghain wasn't sure what had caused it – seeing that elf again, the contents of the chest Bann Teagan had forwarded to them, the presence of Solona's warhound, some combination of them all or some other thing entirely – but whatever had caused it, he was thankful. Easier to try and teach someone who wasn't angry and resentful and fighting him every step of the way.

They talked, as they rode the next morning, having dropped some distance back behind the army, so that the dust kicked up by their passage had mostly settled. Loghain pointed out landmarks, spoke of their shape and how they lay in relation to one another, of how the small rise of land to their left had a commanding view of the road that skirted it, or where an ambush might be laid in the bushes near a ford they crossed, well-hidden until men were in mid-stream, exposed and on chancy footing.

When they stopped to rest the horses, he reviewed their travel so far that day, and was pleased by how much Alistair remembered, and amused by the surprised look on Alistair's own face as he realized just how much of it he'd so easily recalled.

"You'll forget it if you don't review it every now and then. At minimum you want to run through it in your head for a while each morning or evening. Preferably you should review it on a good accurate map regularly, or even draw it out yourself a time or two. It sets it more firmly in your mind, so you're less likely to forget it later. Do it well enough and you'll be able to recall the route and what you saw even years afterwards."

Alistair nodded, and when they resumed travel Loghain could see him looking around, brow sometimes creasing in thought as he tried to replicate on his own what he'd been talked though earlier. Loghain refrained from talking to Alistair, giving him time to become used to this new way of looking at the world. If he kept at it, it would in time become second nature for him, something he did without having to remain consciously aware of it at all times; but for now it was something he had to think of and concentrate on to do. Anyway, Loghain had enough thoughts of his own to occupy him, worrying about how things were progressing in the south, and if they'd arrive to find everything neatly dealt with already, or a giant mess. And then there was the necessity of recruiting to consider, and how he'd need to visit Ostagar and all the things he should probably take a look at between Gwaren and there while he was in the south anyway. Not to mention the mixed pain and pleasure the thought of returning to Gwaren gave him, when it had been his lands and people and was no longer.

And then there was his new horse to enjoy, a rare pleasure. He needed a good name for such a fine beast. _Not_ anything like the name the stable-hands had given it. _Silk_ , indeed. What an appalling lack of imagination that showed. Perhaps something in Avvar, or referring to something in Fereldan history. Though nothing pretentious, that wouldn't do either. He passed a pleasant hour considering and discarding names, until they caught up with the army again, the 3rd having stopped to have their lunch before entering the Brecilian forest.

The road was noticeably narrower after that, the column stretching out to almost double its length as the men rearranged themselves for travel through the forest. He was pleased to see that even though they were in friendly territory, Dorn had scouts out checking the path ahead of them and to either side. There were few bandits fool enough to tackle an entire army unit, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen, or that some particularly touchy clan of Dalish might not turn up in their path, or even something as relatively normal as an angry bear. Better to be on guard against the dangers that didn't appear than to be taken entirely by surprise when one finally did.

It was warm under the trees, warm and moist enough to having the flies out in force. At the next stop Loghain dug through his pack, taking out the corked container of fly-bane. An herb-infused oil, it had a strong citrus smell, rather like the scent of imported oranges or lemons, and most flies disliked it. He smeared some on his own face and hands, then offered the container to Alistair.

"Thanks," Alistair said, and quickly dabbed some on his own exposed skin, methodically smoothing it out and then running his hands through his hair afterwards to ward the flies away from there are well. "Do you want some?" he asked Crunch, holding out his hand toward the dog. The mabari snorted in distaste and backed away rapidly. Clearly he did not.

They made good time that afternoon, and by the time they stopped to camp in a large clearing, Loghain was feeling reasonably confident that they'd reach the area around Gwaren in two more days travel, unless of course the weather broke. Which, of course, it then proceeded to do, Loghain waking in the night to the sounds of rain pattering onto their tent canvas.

Breakfast was lukewarm tea and hastily-inhaled travel rations, eaten under cover of their rain capes. They didn't bother trying to fold up their tent, but instead spread the increasingly wet and muddy canvas over top of the oilskin covering the load on one of the mules. It would get wetter, but at least not muddier. The army muleteers kept the wardens string in their charge for the day, Loghain and Alistair having enough to do in handling their own horses, and it making sense to leave the recalcitrant animals to those who knew their management best.

Chevaliers would have had great difficulty travelling in this mess, Loghain knew, but the Fereldan army took pride in its ability to move even in such adverse conditions. They had to leave their armour bundled away on horse- and mule-back, and lead their horses on foot rather than riding them, but they kept on even as the rain worsened, spreading out to either side of the road whenever the terrain allowed it. The worst stretch was still ahead of them, Loghain knew, a low place in the forest that drained poorly and tended to be a swampy wetlands in the spring or after any heavy rains. Going around it would require a significant detour, however, so they had little choice but to push on ahead, and hope to get past it before the flooding became worse than they could wade through.

They reached the northern edge of the boggy area late in the morning. They stopped for long enough to rest the horses, feeding them a little grain to give them extra energy for the slog ahead, the men taking advantage of the stop to eat as well; the same travel rations as they'd breakfasted on, without any tea this time. They kept the stop as brief as they could; the water was rising visibly, puddles among the tall tufts of grass snaking together and joining up. They spread out on a wide front, to reduce the churning effect that many horses and mules would have on the sodden soil, putting men well-experienced at swamp travel in the front with long poles to probe for depth and soft spots, then cautiously picked their way forward.

It was a very long and tedious afternoon, walking through the swamp. At the deepest part, where a shallow but wide channel near the southern edge of the low area usually ran with water year-round, it came up to the waist or chest of most of the men, and the belly or sides of their mounts. The horses didn't like it at all, tossing their heads and snorting as they picked their way across it, the sluggish current still strong enough to push them a little sideways. Crunch showed no hesitation, but happily jumped in and swam across, pausing only long enough on the far bank to shake off the worst of the wet before moving on.

Loghain was worried about his own horse; being from Antiva, the stallion was likely more used to hot, dry conditions than wading through swamps. Its eyes showed considerable white, and it refused to cross the deep part at first. "Take your horse over," he told Alistair. "I think mine might follow, once it sees the way is safe."

Alistair nodded, and led his gelding forward. It had its head lowered, ears back and tail clamped tight in dislike of the conditions before it, but only briefly balked before following Alistair out into the current.

"Come on," Loghain coaxed his own horse as they watched the pair cross ahead of him. "If that gelding can do it, surely you can as well." He started forward, tugging on the horse's reins. It had its hooves set, not wanting to move forward into the deeper water, and snorted and danced a little when he gave a stronger tug on the reins.

Alistair's gelding reached the far bank, and whinnied as it surged up the underwater bank to shallower water, tail flicking back and forth. Seeing its companion of the last few days on the far shore, Loghain's stallion suddenly changed its mind about crossing, and plunged abruptly forward, surging past him and across the wide channel. As he hurriedly stepped out of its way, his foot came down on a rock that turned underneath him, and the next thing he knew he was under the water, and feeling very thankful that he wasn't wearing his armour as he flailed his arms and tried to rise up again, wincing as pain shot through his ankle and made him lose his footing a second time.

Then a hand caught his arm, and he was pulled upwards, a second hand grabbing him other the opposite arm a moment later. He sputtered as he was pulled up to where he could breath again, spitting out a curse as he finally got his one good foot underneath him and managed to stand upright. It was Alistair who'd pulled him up, he saw as he blinked water out of his eyes, the boy looking surprisingly white-faced. "Are you all right?" Alistair asked worriedly.

Loghain nodded, wincing as he tried to put his weight on his ankle again and holding tightly to Alistair's sodden rain-cape. "Yes, well enough, except for my temper and dignity. And I've gone and done something to my blasted ankle," he said, then glanced around at the swampy morass surrounding them. "No where here to stop and try to do anything about it. I'm going to need your help walking," he said.

"Which side?" Alistair asked.

"Right ankle."

Alistair nodded and moved around to that side, putting his arm around Loghain's back and Loghain's arm over his shoulder, and helped him to limp to shore where their horses waited, reins fastened loosely to a tree branch, Alistair clearly having had the presence of mind to catch the stallion before wading in after Loghain.

"Should you ride, perhaps?" Alistair asked worriedly.

"No, the footing is bad enough for the horses without one of them having to deal with me on their back as well. I'm just going to have to endure walking until we get out of this swamp."

Alistair nodded, and guided Loghain over to lean against the tree while he untied their horses. He fastened the stallion's reins to his own saddle without Loghain needing to prompt him to do so, but then he had been a stable-boy not all that many years before. They hadn't moved on very far before one of the soldiers slogging along nearby noticed their difficulty, and came over to take their pair of horses in hand with her own.

"Broken?" she asked, frowning in concern at Loghain.

"Just sprained, I think," Loghain assured her.

She nodded, looking tired. "Been a few of those so far today. I hate swamps," she said, and continued onwards, managing a faster pace than Alistair and Loghain could, and soon out-distanced them, disappearing among the trees and bushes as the rain began to come down even harder than before. Loghain frowned as he heard what sounded suspiciously like distant thunder, and was glad they'd pushed on today rather than remaining where they were; it sounded like the weather was only going to get worse, not better.

They were among the last stragglers to reach the camp that evening, thankfully a dry one despite the pouring rain; a cluster of three large caves in the base of a limestone cliff, the largest, outermost one being used as a stable for the horses and mules. He was relieved to see his and Alistair's horses among those there, already wearing nose-bags and being wiped down by one of the muleteers.

They continued deeper on into the caves, to where the soldiers were setting up camp. There was, thankfully, enough of a draft through various seams in the rock overhead that fires could be lit in them without the smoke lingering as more than a haze up near the ceiling, and the cooks already had stew cooking and plenty of well-sweetened tea brewing. Lines were being strung, with damp tent canvas and bedding hung over them to dry, and to divide the cave up into areas with some degree of privacy for the soldiers to change out of wet gear and rest.

There was also an infirmary area set up just within the second cave, and while he was still annoyed and somewhat embarrassed to have been injured, Loghain was also relieved not to be the only person needing attention from the healer. Getting his boot off was unpleasant, his ankle having swollen despite the cold water it had been drenched in all day. The healer examined his foot, then strapped it with bandages and gave him a potion to dull the worst of the pain, and told him to stay off of it, all things he would have done on his own anyway. A pity they didn't have a real healer available; a healing mage could have had it fixed and him back on his feet right away.

Alistair helped him back to his feet, and then deeper into the cave. "Over there," Loghain said, gesturing to where Captain Dorn was standing at a camp table with several of his men, a map spread out on the table before him. He looked up as the pair approached, and frowned in concern. "I'd heard your horses came in with someone else; she said you were injured. Have you been to the healer?"

"Yes. Sprain; he's done what he can for it. I'm to stay off it for now," he added, then glanced at the spread-out map. "Do you need me for anything at the moment?"

Captain Dorn smiled slightly. "Not at the moment."

"Good. Then I'll go get changed into something dry, and rest for a while."

Dorn nodded, and turned back to the table. Loghain had Alistair help him over to where their belongings were stacked off to one side. He needed more help than he liked, peeling out of his wet things and drying off, but they were both soaked to the skin and shivering from chill, and there was hardly time to worry about niceties. It was a great relief to settle down on the sandy floor of the cave, legs stretched out, dressed in a dry nightshirt – by far the easiest thing to put on among the available clothing – with bedding that was, thankfully, only slightly damp between him and the floor, and a wool blanket draped over him for warmth. He sighed in relief as he leaned back against a rock, and closed his eyes to give Alistair more privacy than he himself had had. "Go fetch some tea for us once you've changed," he said, and drifted off into exhausted sleep within moments of the words leaving his lips.

* * *

Alistair stripped out of his own sodden clothes, hastily pulling on a pair of dry smalls before towelling himself down with a shirt he'd already worn. He was shivering as he pulled on a dry gambeson and quilted leggings, glad they'd packed so heavily for the trip. Loghain was still sleeping when he turned and checked on the man, his head leaning back against the stone he was sitting propped up against, the neck of his nightshirt dampened by the water still seeping from his hair.

It had frightened him, seeing Loghain disappear beneath the waters, even if the water was comparatively shallow and slow-moving. Even if his warden senses had made it clear to him just exactly where under the roiling surface Loghain was, making wading out and helping him to his feet a comparatively trivial task. He didn't particularly care for the man but that didn't mean he wanted to see him dead.

The thought made him freeze, shocked by the realization that it hadn't been all that long ago when he would have said that Loghain Mac Tir's death was one of his fondest wishes. Yet he hadn't hesitated at all in going to his rescue, other than the moment necessary to grab the stallion's reins and hastily tie both horses to a nearby tree. And even that had only been because he'd felt certain that Loghain would come to no harm in the brief time it took for him to do so, and would likely tear a verbal strip off him if their horses wandered off.

Alistair stood watching him sleep for a moment, then turned away, digging their tin cups out of their baggage and went in search of tea, still feeling chilled himself and certain Loghain must be feeling even worse. The cooks had several big pots of it warming by their fires, with plentiful honey and spices added to it, brewed dark brown and strong. The soldiers lining up for it were dressed in an odd assortment of clothing, the main prerequisite being whatever they had that was actually dry and warm. Thankfully the line was moving quickly, and it wasn't long before Alistair headed back to their spot, a cup brimming with hot tea in each hand.

He hesitated a moment over waking Loghain; judging by how quickly the commander had fallen asleep, he'd been exhausted by his immersion and the long walk with an injured ankle. But he'd asked for tea, and after that long walk in the cold rain was doubtless chilled through and needed it, so Alistair cleared his throat and called his name, loudly.

Loghain started, eyes blinking open, then frowned and winced as he straightened up. "Maker. Remind me not to fall asleep sitting up, next time," he said, and held up one hand for his cup. He winced again as he sipped at it, then sighed and shuddered once before sipping again. "Much better," he said, and since he already had some colour returning to his cheeks, Alistair felt reasonably sure that it was more than just words. Loghain settled back against his rock, cup cradled in both hands.

Alistair took a drink from his own cup, feeling the heat of it right down to his stomach, then found a place to put it down and started unfolding the sodden heap of their tent. He draped the groundsheet and the canvas over ropes someone else had already strung around the area, grimacing at the water that immediately started dripping down to moisten the sandy floor. His own bedding next; his blankets were merely damp, but he'd prefer them to be dry before sleeping in them. He took another larger drink from his cooling tea before beginning to hang up the clothes they'd been wearing earlier that day, wringing out what he could by hand first so they'd dry faster, pausing to sip more tea in between garments.

"See if you can get us seconds," Loghain said when he was done, holding up his empty mug. Alistair nodded and made a second trip to the cook-fires, returning to find Loghain sitting on the rock he'd been leaning against, and trying to pull on a pair of leggings, stymied at getting them higher than mid-thigh by his inability to rise to both feet. He hastened to put aside the tea and help him, supporting him while Loghain pulled his leggings up the rest of the way and fastened them.

"I should warn you that I'm a grumpy patient," Loghain said, and managed a thin smile as Alistair passed him the second mug of tea. "I hate not being able to look after myself. See if you can find me a proper shirt; we'll likely be dining with Captain Dorn again once food is ready, and I'd rather not appear at the table in my nightshirt."

Alistair nodded, and soon found one, handing it to Loghain and taking his nightshirt in exchange, which he folded neatly and set down by Loghain's bedding. "Should I hang your blankets up too, or do you want to lie down again?" Alistair asked, nodding at the bedding.

"You might as well hang it up. And then, since there's nothing better to do, we may as well spend the time until supper reviewing what you remember of what you've observed today," Loghain said.

Alistair made a face. "A lot of mud and rain, mostly," he said. "I'd hate to have been crossing that swamp into enemy soldiers or darkspawn though, especially that bit with the river; they'd have had the high ground."

Loghain smiled. "You're noticing at least some of the right things," he said.

They'd talked and finished their tea, and Alistair had helped Loghain to the jakes and back, before someone showed up to let them know that supper would be served shortly, and did they wish to join Captain Dorn or prefer to eat on their own. Loghain accepted the invitation to Caprtain Dorn's table, and leaned heavily on Alistair's shoulder all the way there, exchanging pleasantries as he took a camp stool and lifted his injured foot up on top of a second one that had been provided for him. "A thoroughly nasty day," he remarked to Captain Dorn.

"Indeed," Dorn said grimly. "Thankfully we didn't lose any men at all, just a number of minor injuries. We lost two horses though; one managed to find a hole under the water to stick its leg in and break it, and a second to snakebite. The rider says the blighted thing dropped out of a tree, where it had apparently taken shelter from the rising waters, when the horse brushed up against a branch. Bit the poor horse then dropped free and swam away. There wasn't anything he could do to save it."

"Damn."

"Indeed. But we'll be ready to move on again tomorrow, unless the weather worsens considerably. I'm just glad it didn't start raining a day earlier, or we'd have had to detour around the lowlands."

Supper arrived then, a pottage of barley and mutton, which judging by the toughness of the mutton had been dried mutton prior to being cooked. But it was hot and filling, and after the day just passed, that was all that really mattered.


	27. Dead Ends and Traps

It was still overcast the next morning, but the rain had stopped overnight and the ground, while still slick with mud and the occasional standing puddle, was passable. They had to walk the first hour, until they were well out of the lowlands, the ground underfoot better-drained and far less of a danger to the horses' footing.

Loghain mounted his stallion without too much difficulty, glad to be properly mobile again even if he wasn't looking forward to a day of riding with a sprained ankle. Or dismounting, which it would be necessary to do several times. To distract himself he spent some time talking with Alistair, telling him about the history and geography of the area they were passing through. Which mostly meant talking about the Dalish, since this was one of the areas in the Brecilian forest favoured by them. "Probably because there's so many easily defensible areas in it. Though it's important to remember that there's a second way to describe most such places; dead-ends and traps. It's like that keep of Oswyn's – it may never have been taken by force, but it's fallen to siege several times. A fastness is only as good as its supplies, unless you can count on outside relief, and if there's no way to get out of it, it's as much a trap as anything else."

Alistair looked thoughtful. "What would you say is the hardest keep to take in all of Ferelden, then?"

"Oh, that's easy. Redcliffe. Perched atop that island like it is, it's damned near impossible to bring any siege engines to bear on it, apart from catapults from shore, and it's a long shot even for them. Its wells will never run dry, and unless you can deny the inhabitants access to the lake, there's fish and the possibility of outside resupply, not to mention enough room within the walls for sizable gardens. That's why it was the last foothold the Orlesians maintained on Ferelden soil; well, that and Eamon's mismanagement of the fight against them. Wanted to prove himself, so he insisted on leading the resistance against them himself rather then getting assistance from more experienced fighters. He tried all sorts of foolish minor attacks on their men outside the castle before finally settling down and setting up a proper siege. Even with all the locals helping to keep the Orlesians from getting anything useful out of the lake, it still took him close to three years to obtain their surrender."

Alistair gave him a surprised look. "I always thought Arl Eamon was a good fighter. Arlessa Isolde always talked about..."

Loghain couldn't help it, he laughed. " _Arlessa Isolde!_ She was an impressionable young girl who looked at Eamon's grossly incompetent attacks against her own father's forces and saw a _romantic rebel_ instead of the equally foolish young man that he was at the time. Neither of them have gained overmuch in wisdom since then either, or at least if they have they're doing a damned fine job of hiding it. It's a pity Teagan was the younger of the brothers; he's at least a reasonably intelligent man. Knows his limits. Doubtless it helps that he served in King Maric's court; he was a page there when he was first brought back from the Free Marches, and then a squire. Would have made knight eventually, too, but then Eamon named him a Bann and he had to go off to Rainesfere instead of finishing his training. But he's at least competent with a sword, and knows enough of things like strategy and tactics to know how much he doesn't know, which is far more than I can say about Eamon."

"Oh," Alistair said, and frowned in thought. "You don't think much of him, do you."

"No, but then he's never given me any reason to. From where I sit, Arl Eamon is a prime example of one of the worst faults of our system of nobility. A man will be raised to it for some great act of competency, but the only way one tends to lose a title and land is through an act of such gross incompetence that an entire line is wiped out. As has more-or-less happened with the Howe's – Rendon and the youngest dead, Delia Howe married to a commoner, and Nathaniel unlikely to ever father an heir, not that there's anything left to inherit now but the name and infamy."

"And the Mac Tirs?" Alistair asked, chin lifting.

Loghain grinned, more amused than offended. "Cheeky bastard! Yes, and the Mac Tirs. At my age I'm unlikely to father another heir myself, and while Anora might yet surprise us all and remarry, so far she's against the idea. I suppose I can understand that; she loved Cailan. Nothing can ever replace him." He fell silent for a few seconds, then glanced over at Alistair. "Not that your line is any more secure. It's possible there's another Theirin bastard floating around somewhere; neither Maric nor Cailan were always particularly good at keeping it in their pants, but if so I've missed hearing of it. So unless you have children – and if you don't already know how unlikely that is for a Grey Warden, I have some news for you – then you're also the last of the Theirin's. Or did you sneak out a chantry window during templar training and sow some wild oats somewhere already?"

Alistair flushed, looking embarrassed. "No, I didn't," he said, voice tight. "I usually followed the rules. Solona was..." He broke off.

That was a sentence Loghain could easily guess the ending to, judging by the boy's reaction. The first. Possibly even the only, considering how far down in a bottle Alistair had been ever since. Poor bastard. But not a subject he had any desire to pry on, nor to attempt offering Alistair any advice on either, so he changed the subject instead, and had Alistair review what he could remember of the terrain they'd passed through so far today. Alistair's memory of it was rather hazy – he'd been concentrating more on their conversation than on the landscape – but he did remember a reasonable amount of the route they'd followed.

They kept their talk to fairly neutral topics after that, mostly discussing additional history and related genealogy, which sometimes wandered rather far afield; as far as Fereldan nobles had married either into or out of foreign families, which covered all of the Free Marches, a good-sized chunk of Antiva and even Rivain, not to mention into Orlais.

"Of course Orlais," Loghain explained when Alistair expressed some surprise. "Isolde and Eamon were hardly the first marriage across political divides we've ever seen. Not always romances, of course, there were more than a few young heirs and heiresses forced into marriages with Orlesian nobles after the chevaliers crossed our borders. Some of them having become heirs and heiresses because the chevaliers first saw to it that the remainder of their family was no longer in any condition to inherit, of course. Some of their descendants are still nobles of Ferelden, for that matter, though only a very few have maintained any connections with the Orlesian side of their family tree now that it's no longer politic to do so."

He fell silent for a little while, then sighed. "Between the whole-sale decimation of many Ferelden lines during the occupation, the terrible number of deaths during the rebellion itself – West Hill and White River in particular – and then the Blight, many old Fereldan families are either no more, or hanging by a thread. Nobles like Arl Eamon despise new nobles such as myself, but where is the next generation of Ferelden nobility to come from, if not from the commons? Eamon's only just got an heir of his own again for Redcliffe, assuming the girl doesn't prove to be another mage, none to spare to marry into other lines or hold other places that will soon be going empty as our generation ages and dies off. Arl Wulff had several sons, all with good prospects, and now he's reduced to being thankful that he happened to have had a bastard as well. And I... well, I know that in this I too failed Ferelden. I should have remarried after Celia died, had more children. Something needs to change, or in ten, twenty years time, Orlais will be able to march in again with nothing but a handful of nobles and a lot of frightened peasantry to oppose her."

He looked up, and saw the wide-eyed way in which Alistair was staring at him, and smiled humourlessly. "Sorry. I do go on about things like this at times; it's the sort of issue your father and I would often discuss over drinks late into the night, the problem being apparent even before he disappeared, long before the Blight made it even worse. Not that discussing it made either of us marry again or father more children, or at least not _legitimate_ ones," he added, raising an eyebrow pointedly at Alistair, then sighed. "I suppose we always thought there'd be time to fix it, or that it would fix itself. That we could leave it as a problem for our children's generation to solve instead of dealing with it ourselves, preferably by them having lots and lots of little babies of their own. And instead Maric vanished, the Blight killed off two-thirds of our children's generation, and the problem is far, far worse now than he and I ever imagined it might become. I suppose there's some obvious lesson to be learned from all that, but I'll be damned if I can think of a pithy phrase to sum it up with just at present."

Alistair smiled uncertainly, and lifted one hand from his reins to rub at one eyebrow with the knuckle of his thumb. The gesture sent a brief chill through Loghain; Cailan had sometimes done that. A gesture he'd picked up from one of his uncles, Loghain belatedly remembered, it being something Teagan had a habit of when thinking about something. He realized that was where Alistair must have acquired it too, and yet he associated it so strongly with Cailan that he couldn't help but feel disturbed to see it. He sighed, realizing that he was going to have to just get used to the fact that there'd be times when he looked at the boy and saw only his resemblance to his father and brother, his inescapable similarity to them.

"Anyway, it's Anora's problem to deal with now," Loghain continued. "We have our own problems to worry about."

"Darkspawn."

"Yes, indeed. Darkspawn. The Blight may be over, but the Deep Roads beneath Ferelden still swarm with the creatures the archdemon summoned here. Elsewhere, I have heard, they're enjoying a respite from them, the Deep Roads beneath the nearest portions of Orlais and the Free Marches being virtually emptied of darkspawn, all of them having come here instead, and few of them having filtered back northwards or westwards since. And I have all of 20-odd people to deal with it. Though at least they're damned stupid creatures and comparatively easy to deal with most of the time, now that the talking darkspawn all seem to be dead. Not like going up against a troop of well-trained chevaliers"

Alistair frowned. "You mentioned talking darkspawn once before. What do you mean by that... darkspawn don't really talk, do they?"

Loghain was startled, and stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "I should have realized you might not have heard. I suppose I assumed Oghren or Sigrun or someone would have told you the story," he said, and then launched into the lengthy tale of his initial arrival in Amaranthine, and having to deal with the Architect and The Mother, as well as their numerous minions, which occupied the rest of that day's travel, Alistair having many questions once he'd got past his initial shock and borderline disbelief.

It hurt every bit as much as he'd thought it would to dismount by the end of the day, and he had to go see the healer for another potion against the pain. At least they'd made good time, and should reach the area of the sinkhole the next day. Assuming one of the mages was on hand, he'd be able to get it seen to properly then.

* * *

Alistair had thought Loghain must be pulling his leg at first, when he spoke of talking darkspawn, but it quickly became clear that it had been anything but a joke. The Architect, the Mother, their disciples... he shuddered, remembering the necromancer genlock they'd fought at Ostagar; it hadn't spoken, but it sounded from Loghain's descriptions of the ones he'd had to deal with that it might have been a close cousin of the talking darkspawn. Certainly more intelligent in its direction of the lesser darkspawn within its control than most such creatures were. He tried to imagine if every group of darkspawn had such a leader, and found the idea deeply disturbing, on several levels.

He had to admit, too, that he was impressed by how well Loghain had handled it all, with only a handful of additional untrained wardens. It gave him a greater appreciation of the newer wardens as well, hearing what Sigrun had survived, how well Oghren had handled himself. Oghren had told him a bit about the mage and the spirit, but Loghain told their story in far greater detail. He understood, too, why Loghain was leery of trusting the Dalish mage, and why he was willing to place so much trust in Nathaniel despite who his father had been.

Hearing Loghain talk of it all made him wish he'd been there, wish he'd been part of their group. He was, he realized, a little jealous of them all. They'd been doing what he should have been, and coming together as a group, while he was off trying to drink himself senseless. It made him feel... ashamed. And angry with himself, because he _could_ have been a part of that, if only he hadn't let his anger and disappointment get the better of him at the Landsmeet.

He thought about that during supper, listening with only half an ear to the conversation around the table, mostly final discussions between Dorn and Loghain of what they expected to find when they moved further south tomorrow, what they imagined the best- and worst-case scenarios might be, contingency plans for if one of the bad outcomes proved to be true.

He found himself wondering if part of his disappointment and anger had been because Solona _had_ agreed so readily to support Anora as Queen. Sure, he'd _told_ her he didn't want to be king, insisted he lacked any training or aptitude for it... but maybe there'd been at least a little part of him that wished that she'd have offered to support him as king anyway. Not merely because Arl Eamon wished it, but because she herself, perhaps, believed he could do it. That she had faith in him, even if he lacked it. Though he realized could hardly blame her, not when he'd shoved the responsibility for command of the pair of them and their eventual little group entirely onto her shoulders, despite the fact that it had been he with the seniority and at least some of the right training. Really, what on earth had Duncan been thinking, thinking he'd be any good as a Grey Warden? He'd failed Duncan, failed Solona, failed everything and everyone. Failed even himself.

As he curled up for bed, certain his thoughts would keep him from sleep for quite some time, he really, _really_ wished he had a drink. Not just _a_ drink, but enough drink to silence his thoughts and let him rest. But that would just be another failure, he admitted to himself. Drinking until he forgot his problems didn't make the problems go away, it just delayed dealing with and trying to solve them. There was no easy answer to be found in a bottle of wine or a cask of beer. Only temporary oblivion, and another failure. And he'd had enough of failures.

He had a chance now to redeem himself, thanks to Loghain's interference in his life. And maybe that interference wasn't as bad a thing as he'd first thought it would be. Loghain, at least, seemed to believe him capable of learning; capable of maybe being more than just Maric's unwanted, useless bastard of a son.

And maybe this was something that it would be _good_ to prove someone right on, for once; to live up to someone else's better idea of himself, rather than down to his own. He smiled crookedly, aware of how closely his thoughts marched with Loghain's words the day before about Maric and Loghain's own relationship. Maric had, it seemed, approved of Loghain. Shaped him.

Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to let Loghain shape _him_ in turn.


	28. Encounter with Darkspawn

They made good time the next morning, the sun being out and the ground having now mostly dried from the rain. Loghain was busy riding alongside and talking with Captain Dorn, so Alistair spent his time just staying within earshot in case Loghain called for him, and looking around, while talking occasionally to Crunch, the mabari having decided to stay close to him this morning. The fact that he was slipping bits of dried meat to the hound at intervals had absolutely nothing to do with it, of course.

The forest here was much more open than what they'd passed through further north, being mostly evergreen trees, the ground underneath them carpeted with fallen needles, with only occasional clusters of undergrowth. Some of it was fairly solid clumps of balsam firs or cedar saplings that would have been difficult to push through, if they hadn't had the road to follow, but mostly it was low-growing things like bracken ferns, and blueberry bushes or raspberry canes where there was enough sun.

They stopped at the top of a rise for their midday meal, one with a moderately spectacular view out over the surrounding forest. Their meal was sandwiches made of rounds of panbread, baked over the breakfast fires earlier in the day, split and filled with mild cheese and thin slices of very peppery dried sausage, and a dab of sour cherry preserve. And tea, Captain Dorn having decided to stop for long enough that fires could be lit to warm water for it.

Captain Dorn had mentioned a skirmish he and Loghain had once both been involved in against a scouting party of Orlesians, and both men were retelling the story now, a lengthy one, as it had involved tracking the Orlesians for some distance before finally encountering them, and then a nasty running fight when there turned out to be a second, larger group of Orlesians in the area. Loghain suddenly broke off, lifting his head and gazing off to the southwest. Then Alistair felt it too. "Darkspawn," he said.

"Yes," Loghain agreed. "Not many, but best to be prepared," he said, and quickly wolfed down the last few bites of his own food, even as Captain Dorn began shouting orders and all the soldiers hurried into motion.

Alistair was impressed by how quickly everyone moved; within minutes the fires had been doused, the few things that had still been in use loaded back on the pack mules, and everyone was mounting up again.

"How far?" Dorn asked Loghain as they moved out.

"Not very; no more than a mile, or I wouldn't have felt them at all, and likely less. Along the road, too, or not very far off it," Loghain judged.

They heard the sounds of battle before they came in sight of the darkspawn; shouts, roars, the clash of metal against metal. "There's wardens there!" Loghain called out to Captain Dorn, who nodded acknowledgement. They picked up their pace, and soon Alistair could feel them too. Moments later they emerged into a small clearing among the trees, where the road curved around the base of a small rock outcrop. There were figures on top of the outcrop; the wardens, fighting off the darkspawn that swarmed around its base.

Someone blew a horn; the soldiers roared a challenge as its notes faded away, the two together distracting at least some of the darkspawn away from their harassment of the beleaguered men. Most of the soldiers dismounted, horses generally being unwilling to close with darkspawn, formed up quickly into groups, and then moved forward with weapons at the ready. A few remained mounted, unlimbering bows and shooting over the heads of the men on foot toward the charging darkspawn, picking off several of them before it became unsafe to continue shooting.

Loghain and Alistair were in the van of the charge toward the darkspawn, each armed with sword and shield, bellowing loud battle cries to attract the attention of their enemy. Their taint drew the creatures almost more than their shouts did, and the nearest darkspawn quickly focused on the two of them, largely ignoring the soldiers in their hatred of the wardens.

It did made things slightly easier for the soldiers following them, at least, who were able to concentrate more on slaughtering the darkspawn than on defending themselves. There had not been all that many darkspawn to start with – a little less than two dozen – and in very short order all the darkspawn were dead, the group of wardens climbing down off their rock. Dorn's soldiers, many of them experienced with darkspawn from the Blight year, immediately started gathering wood to burn the corpses, and carefully checking each other for any cuts, or splashes of darkspawn blood.

"Commander! By the Stone but was I happy to see you arrive," one of the wardens called out as the group approached. Alistair belatedly recognized him; Podge, the dwarven warrior who had originally been in Nathaniel's group, and was now in charge of a group of his own. Brann he'd also seen before – a skinny elf, most of his hair cut very short except for an odd ponytail of longer hair that ran from brow to nape, his face covered with a tattoo like a smeared green hand-print. The other two were clearly the new wardens.

Loghain greeted Podge and Brann, then turned to the other two, smiling broadly first of all at a man who had to be one of the tallest humans Alistair had ever seen, only a few inches shorter in height than Sten had been, and equally heavily muscled. He had shaggy brown hair and pale grey eyes, and a faintly worried look. He had a long-handled mallet resting on one shoulder, the end gory from fighting darkspawn. "Wilf," Loghain said, nodding at him, before turning to look at the other man, as short and skinny as Wilf was tall and wide, with a bow in hand and a long knife hanging from his belt. "And this must be Lem?"

"Yesser," Lem said, ducking his head and looking very nervous. "Used to be a hunter, ser."

"So I heard. I'm sorry about what happened to the pair of you, and your friends, though I can't say that I'm sorry to have more Grey Wardens; as you've just seen, we need them. Wilf, how's your father these days?"

Wilf's lips worked in and out for a moment, brow furrowing deeply, before he answered. "He's good. His leg is still bothering him, but Reet and Timothy help him with the mill now."

"Timothy... I don't think I know him. Your sister's husband? Or just a friend?"

"Yeah, Reet married him..." A pause, lips working again. "...two springs ago. He was a refugee."

"Oh? Where from?"

"Lothering," Wilf said, and smiled happily. "He worked in a mill there too, so it was really lucky that Reet wanted to marry him."

Loghain smiled slightly. "I suppose it was," he agreed, then turned back to the two more senior wardens. "Podge, I'll need you to bring Captain Dorn and myself up to date on how things have been going here. The rest of you can help with cleaning up the darkspawn bodies. Are there any more around, or just the ones here?"

"They gave us a bit of a chase, commander," Podge said. "Brann and Lem should be able to find the outlying bodies; there wasn't many."

"All right. Wilf, Alistair, you two stay here and help the soldiers, all right? Podge, with me."

"Yes ser," everyone said, and scattered to their tasks, Brann and Lem heading off in what was presumably the direction they'd come here from, Podge following Loghain as he headed over to where Captain Dorn was, while Wilf and Alistair remained where they were, the pair of them looking around uncertainly.

"What should I do with my mallet?" Wilf asked worriedly.

"Oh, um... just put it down here by the rock, I guess. It should be safe here," Alistair told him.

Wilf nodded, and set the weapon down, its handle leaning against the rock, then walked over to the nearest darkspawn corpse, grabbing it by the ankles and dragging it off toward where the soldiers were piling wood and bodies together. Alistair did the same with a second one, grimacing at the feeling of the rough, still-warm flesh. Nasty work, but it needed to be done, and unlike the soldiers, at least he and Wilf didn't need to worry about any chance of contracting blight sickness from handling the tainted corpses. Which meant, he was pretty certain, that they were going to get to clean up all the messiest bits and pieces.

* * *

It was over an hour later before the last darkspawn corpse had been retrieved from the surrounding woods, the last stick of wood added to the pyre. A small keg of oil was broken open and poured over the pile, and then it was lit, everyone staying well-back from it as it roared into flame. A few soldiers were told off to maintain a watch on the fire, and see it didn't get out of hand, while everyone else headed to a second clearing a short distance further down the road, one bordering on a small lake, the water spring-fed and bitterly cold once you got beyond the shallows. Everyone bathed, and cleaned their armour and any items of clothing they'd been wearing, the general feeling being that it was better to be overly cautious with potential blight sickness than not cautious enough; all of the veteran soldiers had seen the effects of it at one time or another, and considered it horrifying. It was an enemy that no sword could fight.

Though it was only mid-afternoon, and they'd eaten just before the battle, the cooks broke out their supplies and began preparing a meal; they couldn't move on until the fire was out, so Dorn intended that they'd eat early, and then march into the evening before stopping again, hopefully at or near the sinkhole, which was only a few hours travel away. The soldiers certainly didn't object to having a lengthy break, and were soon scattered around the clearing, talking or napping or caring for their gear and horses, as the mood took them.

Alistair settled down with Crunch at one side of the clearing, preparing to clean his sword, only to be joined by the other three wardens, Brann flinging himself down on the ground to one side of Alistair while Lem and Wilf sat down on the other. Wilf had retrieved his mallet, Alistair saw, and had apparently cleaned it by the simple expedient of dunking it in the lake and scrubbing it with sand; it was still dripping with water. Lem had already unstrung and put away his bow, and pulled out his long knife to check the edge and see if it needed to be sharpened.

"Maker but I hate forests," Brann said, and stretched before wiggling into a marginally more comfortable position on the needle-strewn ground.

Alistair gave him a surprised look. "I thought elves liked forests?"

Brann snorted. "I'm a city elf, not some wilderness-loving Dalish," he said. "I prefer a place with streets and taverns, not trees and things that want to bite chunks out of me. Though at least this part of it is fairly dry. Have you seen the swarms of insects in the swampy bits? Give me a gang of street kids to escape from any day, at least they don't wiggle their way into your armour where they can bite you without you being able to squish 'em."

Alistair made a face. "We passed through a swamp a couple days ago, in the rain, so... yeah. Good thing Loghain had some fly-bane on hand, I didn't think to pack any."

"Yeah, he's always prepared for everything and anything," Brann said. "Which I suppose is why he's the commander."

"So how'd you end up a Grey Warden?" Alistair asked him. "Blighted?"

"Maker, no. I'm a conscripted criminal," Brann said, and grinned, as if it was something to be proud of.

"Oh yeah?" Lem asked, looking up from running his dagger across a whetstone. "What'd you do? Kill someone?"

"Nah. I was a smuggler for years, back in Highever. Had a nice quiet little racket, the right guards paid off, regular night runs set up. Could have kept it going for years yet, as long as no one decided to get greedy, and I'd been careful to recruit people who just wanted a little extra spending cash regularly, not some big haul. And then Howe came in, and slaughtered pretty near every living person in the castle," he said, eyes hardening, and spat off to the side. "Demons torment his blighted soul. My sister was a maid there. I heard from someone who saw the bodies when they were being hauled out and dumped on the midden – not even burned, just thrown out like trash – and she didn't die easy. None of them did. Not that there's many deaths that are _easy_. Anyway, Howe's men locked the city down tight; couldn't no-one come or go without papers, and only Howe's men had 'em. They let a few merchants leave who'd been there when it happened, but no one else. And they had the alienage locked down tight, wasn't anyone allowed in or out. I'm sure you can guess why," he added bitterly.

"He planned to sell you all," Alistair said.

"Yeah. Bunch of ships showed up in the harbour one morning. Big ones, from Tevinter. I was smuggling already by then; food mostly, they weren't letting anyone into the alienage to sell or out of it to buy, so those of us who could were sneaking out to buy fish and stuff from the fishermen who'd worked runs for us before, and sneak it back in. One of mine told me he didn't like the look of things; said he'd had to pass downwind of the ships and they smelled like slavers to him. And he'd know, having worked a slaver for a while in his youth up north, before he decided he'd rather deal in fish than flesh. He was getting out that very night, he told me, he'd only stayed long enough to get his coin from me, since the money would come in handy, running and resettling."

Bran sighed. "Well, I wasn't sure I believed him about the ships, but that very day a troop of Howe's men came in and surrounded a block of tenement buildings. Looking for someone, they said, and ordered everyone out, and then took them away. And that very night two of the ships sailed off again. So at that point I grabbed what money I had left, spread the word quietly to a few others, and I got out of there, fast. Don't know if anyone I told believed me, or got away – I've yet to meet or hear of any other elf who got out of there after the lock-down. Anyway, I decided to head for Denerim; I figured if Howe really was selling off the Highever elves, that the Amaranthine alienage was going to go the same way if it hadn't already, but Denerim... Denerim would be safe."

"Did you ever get there?" Lem asked.

"No, luckily for me. I got lost, wandered around over what must have been half the bannorn. I know cities and harbours and boats, not farmland and grain and sheep. Got close enough to see the glow of the burning when the darkspawn invaded though, and ended up in the tail of the army, earning a few coppers and my meals by acting as a scullion to the army cooks. And then spent the next few weeks fighting fires, and hauling bodies out of collapsed buildings, and salvaging usable bricks and beams, and thinking how much I wished I'd been the one to cut Rendon Howe's throat open for him."

Alistair nodded. A cut throat hadn't, in fact, been how Howe had died, but he didn't think that was exactly relevant. "So how'd the conscripted criminal part come about?"

"Oh, that was easy. I had to make a living, didn't I? Got back into smuggling, once all the other work started drying up. Went along on a long run from Denerim to Amaranthine a few months later, to check the place out. I'd heard with so few elves left there, there was a lot of good jobs actually offering decent wages, and I wanted to see if it was true. Only Loghain had shut down the Amaranthine end of the smuggling by then, and our ship sailed right into a trap; the hidden dock was manned by city guards instead of smugglers. I ended up in prison, which I suppose saved my life since it meant I was safely locked up in a good solid stone building when the darkspawn came through the city. Got pretty hungry for a while though, the guards having been killed in the fighting and everyone being too busy afterwards to give much thought to any prisoners still locked up in the jail. Then one day in walks Loghain with the new guard captain, food, and word that those of us still alive had two choices; the noose or the wardens. So I'm a Grey Warden."

"Not that you were overly grateful at the time," Loghain said, having approached the group without them noticing, all of them too busy listening to Brann's tale. All of them jumped, except Wilf, who just grinned.

Brann grinned as well, though it seemed more a baring of teeth than anything pleasant, not bothering to rise or salute or anything either. "Hardly. Especially when I found out you had a _Howe_ as a warden."

Alistair's eyebrows rose. "But you're part of his patrol."

"Yeah, well, Nate's nothing like Rendon. After I tried to kill him we ended up talking a lot. He's all right."

" _After_ you..." Lem said in tones of disbelief, his hands going still for a moment, the same words Alistair was thinking.

Loghain snorted, and lowered himself to sit on the ground as well. "It seems to be a bit of a tradition in the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Nathaniel was looking to kill _me_ when he first came to the keep, after all. But I recruited him instead. He's hardly the only warden to have ever entertained such designs about their commander or a fellow warden, either," he added, his eyes briefly meeting Alistair's. "It's distressingly common in the army at times, too. Thankfully it only rarely ends in an actual death."

Alistair flushed slightly.

"Some of us have good reason to wish other people dead," Brann said, an edge of hostility in his voice. Alistair guessed that he, like Tisha, would have been just as happy to see Loghain dead.

"I never said it wasn't without reason," Loghain said. "Even perhaps quite good ones, in some cases. But good reason or not, most military establishments – and the quasi-military ones like the wardens and templars as well – frown on the idea of killing off your superior officers or compatriots. Punishments for such tends to be rather stringent, therefore. Alistair, you've been reviewing the regulations. Have you reached the part that deals with such offences yet?"

"Yes," he admitted, wishing he hadn't.

"Summarize them, please."

Alistair did. Lem looked white-faced, Brann a little greener than even his tattoo explained, and Wilf mostly puzzled when he was done. Loghain's expression hadn't changed in the least.

"Harsher terms of punishment than the army uses, but as I've explained to Alistair on a related subject before, the army tends mostly to be volunteers, not a mix of people conscripted against their will and hardened criminals. The Grey Wardens' rules are meant to be more of a deterrent than a hard-and-fast punishment, though if it does become necessary to make a point, they make it quite nastily. I prefer to be more lenient, unless I am convinced there is no other choice. You will note that I did not have you flogged as described after your attempt on Nathaniel's life, for instance," he added, directing his final words to Brann. Though also, Alistair noticed, reassuring Lem by doing so. Loghain was nothing if not efficient; if someone thing could serve multiple useful purposes, he would do or say it, it seemed.

"For which I'm just as grateful as I was at being made a Grey Warden," Brann said.

Loghain actually smiled. "Which is to say, hardly at all."

Brann grinned, and nodded.

Lem snorted, and gave his knife a final wipe with a soft cloth before sheathing it. "You're all crazy," he said.

Loghain smiled crookedly. "I suppose we are. But hunting darkspawn is hardly an occupation for those who are entirely sane, is it? But it needs to be done, or horrors happen, such as what happened to those two youngsters your group tried to save."

Lem paused, then nodded. "A good point. I'd still rather be out hunting deer or tending a trap line than hunting darkspawn though."

"Wouldn't we all," Loghain said. "How are the deer lately? It's been too long since I last had a chance to do any real hunting. And certainly no time for it this trip, even if I'd brought my bow."

The two men ended up in a lengthy discussion about the condition of the local herds over the winter just past, meadows where they commonly fed at certain times, tracks, fewmets, and blinds, with Lem talking about hunting a particular buck up a hillside somewhere that Loghain apparently knew well, right down to the turn in a trail by a rock-slide where Lem had finally lost the animal.

"It doesn't look safe to cross, but there's a large boulder two-thirds of the way up the western side, and a game trail that passes around the back of it and then across the scree; you can't see it from below, the shape of the hillside hides it. They cross the slide there, and get into the woods on the other side," he told Lem. "I only found it myself because I came out of the forest in time to see the doe I was tracking that day crossing the last bit of the slide. There's a lovely spot back in there, where a stream coming down from higher up the slope falls into a pond. Beautiful place, when the sun hits it just right in mid-afternoon. Lots of rabbits in the woods there."

Lem smiled. "I'd like to see it some time. Though I have a suspicion that being a Grey Warden makes it pretty unlikely."

"Sadly, yes. It's been years since I last had the time to get up there myself, even before being conscripted."

Lem looked surprised. "Conscripted? I thought you'd volunteered."

"No, he didn't volunteer," Alistair said, exchanging a look with Loghain.

Loghain smiled crookedly. "Shall you tell it, or shall I?" he asked dryly.

"You tell it," Alistair said, suddenly wondering how it had looked from Loghain's side of things. He knew how it had looked to him.

Loghain sighed, and then to Alistair's surprise stretched out on one side on the ground, braced partially upright on one elbow, somehow managing to look comfortable and at his ease despite still being dressed in full armour. "I'm sure most of you have heard at least the bones of the matter," he said. "The Hero of Ferelden and I, in an epic confrontation in the historic Landsmeet chamber, before a gathering of the finest nobles of Ferelden," he said, and fell silent for a moment, eyes unfocusing slightly. "She was a small woman, much smaller than you'd imagine from the way the stories talk of her. Tanned and freckled and fly-bitten from the road. Someone had tried to clean her up, do something with her hair, make her look more ladylike, but it was like sticking jewels and gilt on the hilt of a sword; it's the sharp blade you should be looking at, not the pretty trimmings."

He smiled crookedly. "I thought I was watching the blade, but I think I'd forgotten that a good sword has more than one edge. I was tired and worn out myself, terrified that this slight little woman might have done something to my daughter, who'd disappeared under mysterious circumstances just a few days before. My judgement was... not at its best, shall we say. Despite having seen evidence of just how ruthless and deadly she could be when provoked, I challenged her to single combat. I suppose I thought it would be an easy win; it wasn't. It was instead a very resounding and shamefully rapid loss."

He fell silent again, plucking a bit of grass and toying with it a moment before continuing. "I thought she'd kill me, of course. She had no reason to keep me alive; I was her enemy. I'd tried to have her killed, I'd had her imprisoned, I'd done everything in my considerable power to eliminate her and her companions. And she'd survived it all. Then this Orlesian warden came forward, and suggested that I should be _conscripted_ instead," he said grimly, then sighed. "I sometimes wonder if Anora knew that the Joining might kill me, when she urged Solona to go ahead with it. Perhaps she did, and felt that at least some chance at my living was better than seeing me killed right there before her eyes. In any event, Solona decided that conscripting me was an excellent idea."

He smiled again, and looked over at Brann. "I was no more thankful for it than you are. Nor was I the only one unappreciative of her decision," he added, and looked over at Alistair.

Alistair flushed. "I hated her for it. Becoming a Grey Warden had meant so much to me... I thought it was important to her, too. And then for her to turn around and make you a Grey Warden, after everything you'd done to try and eliminate the last of us! I couldn't understand how she could do that," he said. And looked away from all of them for a moment, having to force out the next few words. "So I abandoned her. I failed my duty as a Grey Warden and left, not just the Landsmeet chamber but Ferelden itself. I ran away."

"It was important to her," Loghain said quietly. "Important enough that she ignored her own hatred of me, and conscripted me, because there were only three wardens in all of Ferelden at that point, and having a fourth made it just that little bit more likely that we would succeed in killing the archdemon, though even four barely improved the odds, which were very bad. Though of course with Alistair leaving, we were only three anyway."

Loghain sighed, and sat upright again. "I suppose I was rather in shock at events for a while. So much had changed, so quickly. I had lost everything, I thought at first. My king, my daughter, my position, my chance to save Ferelden. I wished, more than once, that the Joining ceremony _had_ killed me, since at least then everything would be over with and I wouldn't have to see Ferelden overrun by darkspawn, or 'rescued' by Orlesians who'd then neglect to return home. I was, not to put too fine a point on it, as much of a surly, ungrateful ass as I possibly could be, just as much as any of the wardens under me have ever been," he said, and then smiled. "I think Solona wished more than once that she could turn back time and redo her decision differently." His eyes flicked towards Alistair again, but he didn't speak at all of the second reason, other than his own ungratefulness, that she might have wished to do so.

"Eventually I realized that I still had a chance to save Ferelden. That circumstances and context had changed, but that there might still be hope, as vanishingly small as chances seemed that we could pull it off. And Solona... she hated leading, but by the Maker was she good at it. She reminded me of Maric, more than once, in her capacity to draw the best out of people, and of Rowan, in her devotion to duty. By the time we reached Redcliffe, I was... well, not _happy_ with how things had turned out, but at least willing to follow her orders and hoping she'd prove capable of doing what must be done. And she was," he said, sadly. "As she proved on the roof of Fort Drakon, finishing off the Archdemon that Riordan had forced down. Both of them heroes, managing to kill an Archdemon with far fewer wardens and far less loss of life – even counting all the dead in places like Ostagar, Lothering and Denerim – than had ever been managed previously. And leaving me in the unenviable position as the last remaining warden alive in all of Ferelden," he said, and grimaced. "Which promptly had me saddled with the title of Warden-Commander, almost as many responsibilities as I'd had as General of the Armies, and with almost no men to satisfy the needs of the position, and those few on loan. And then dead, before I ever even got to meet them."

"I'd heard about that," Lem spoke up. "Darkspawn attacked in the night, or something like that?"

"Yes. And the wardens apparently didn't have any kind of a watch in place, and were killed to a man. There were very few survivors, and those entirely among the non-wardens, which I think says much about the training and preparedness of the wardens we'd been loaned. Their dregs, most likely, though not having had any chance to meet them myself I might well be wrong on that. Though you'd think if any of them were _skilled_ as Grey Wardens they could have done at least as well at surviving as one very drunken dwarf did; Oghren was on his feet happily slaying darkspawn without even a scratch on him when we came across him. Granted he'd had a lot of recent experience against the creatures, but then I have to ask why the wardens we'd been sent _didn't_ , if that was indeed what made the difference."

Loghain frowned. "Though I may be being too hard on them. By what we found out later, the wardens were very specifically targeted by the darkspawn. Men like Oghren and Anders might have survived simply because the darkspawn largely ignored them, in favour of seeking out the Orlesian wardens. In any event, whatever their faults may or may not have been, I ended up starting out with only barely more wardens to work with than had defeated the Blight, and _me_ the most experienced of the lot. We still have only a fraction as many wardens as are needed to adequately patrol a country this large, much less deal with the darkspawn in the Deep Roads as I'm committed to."

"Which would be why you're not exactly sorry about me and Wilf and that married couple ending up wardens," Lem said.

"Far from it. Sorry for the circumstances that led to it, yes, but I'd be a damned fool to regret having a few more wardens to deal with the darkspawn. I need more. Queen Anora has given permission for me to recruit more aggressively, and to begin a second Grey Warden establishment here in the south. If any of you know of anyone who might actually _volunteer_ to be a Grey Warden, then I encourage you to talk or write to them. I'll conscript as well, since I don't really have any other choice, but I'll have to stick to mostly criminals for that to prevent an anti-warden backlash, and I'm sure all of you can see that wouldn't lead to us having the best possible people for the job."

"I'd agree with that," Brann said, frowning. "Someone like me, who was just a small-time smuggler, or Edrick, who killed by accident, that's one thing. There's those that think killing or half-killing someone is just a bit of fun, like the only people who are real are themselves. And I'd rather be sure that I can turn my back on the Grey Warden beside me, without having to worry that he'll stick his knife in just because he can."

"Exactly," Loghain said approvingly. "It's like those rules; I'd rather not recruit the types of person where I'd have to seriously consider ever applying those sorts of punishments. Doubtless we'll end up with one or two of that sort anyway, but the more Grey Wardens we have who _want_ to be Grey Wardens, who, like Alistair, consider it an honour, or at least a job worth doing, and not a punishment, the better."

Alistair flushed as everyone turned and looked at him. "I'm not sure I consider it so much an honour any more," he said slowly. "It was for me, but that was me. It isn't, for everyone. I've even seen people who thought it was an honour, right up until they realized what becoming a warden entailed, and then changed their minds entirely. And I guess it wasn't a choice any of you would have made, if you'd had any choice at all. But I do think it's a job worth doing."

Brann and Lem both nodded slowly. "I suppose I can agree with that much, after everything I've seen since becoming a Grey Warden," Brann agreed. "I'd still rather be a smuggler than a warden, but since I am a warden, well... at least I don't have to worry about keeping a roof over my head or food on the table. And there's far worse fates I could have got stuck with over the last few years."

Lem frowned thoughtfully. "Nathaniel took us to see the bodies, those of us who survived the joining. Told us what the darkspawn had been trying to do to that poor girl. Said that part of being a Grey Warden is helping to prevent things like that from ever happening. Yeah. I'd say it's a job worth doing. Though I'd still rather be a hunter," he added, smiling thinly.

Wilf spoke up next, surprising all of them. "I _like_ being a Grey Warden," he said. "They don't need me much in the mill any more. Reet is smarter about how things work than I am, so it's going to be her mill some day, and now she has Timothy to help out and he does a lot of what I used to do. People say she and Timothy are good for looking after me, like I can't do anything else but work in the mill. Like I'm no use outside of it. But now I can fight darkspawn, and that looks after _everyone_. I like that better."

Loghain smiled warmly at Wilf. "And I'm glad to have you," he said. "Your father always told me how hard of a worker you were, and I'm sure you'll make an excellent warden."

Lem grinned. "I'll say! He's damned frightening swinging that mallet; it's better than having a wall between me and the darkspawn, they never even got close to me. I'm way better with a bow than at knife-work, and a bow's not exactly a good weapon once they get close-in. We made a pretty good team."

Wilf smiled, looking happy at the praise.

Podge walked up to the group just then, looking tired out. "Food's about to be served," he told them all, then turned to Loghain. "Captain Dorn says we should be heading out in about an hour, once everything is washed up and packed again."

"Right," Loghain said, and rose to his feet. "Let's go claim our share of dinner before the soldiers eat it all. Damned bunch of walking bellies. Almost as bad as Grey Wardens are."


	29. Gathering In

Loghain frowned in thought as they rode south. They should be at the sinkhole soon. And from what Podge had told them, it sounded as if it was a good thing that he'd brought some of the army south with him.

Things had initially gone fairly well, Podge had said; they'd gotten in, got the surviving trappers out, then gone back in and tried for the youngsters. It had already been too late to do anything for either of them; the boy already long dead and mostly consumed, the girl past any help the wardens could give save one. Velanna had incinerated the remains, so they were at least able to return the ashes to their families. Then the Joining for the tainted hunters, after which they'd brought the new-made, swiftly recovering wardens down with them while they checked for signs of any additional darkspawn in the area, or of any other captives. And explained to the new wardens just exactly what darkspawn wanted such captives _for_.

They'd found a few small groups of darkspawn in the area and killed them, and then once Oghren's group had shown up with engineers in tow had begun work on sealing the tunnels. It was known that darkspawn could tunnel a fair distance when motivated to do so, so the decision was made that they'd need to collapse not just the entrances themselves, but several junctions further in as well, from where the sinkhole was to where a major north-south artery ran by some distance to the west. That would render a large area around the sinkhole impassible, and lessen any risk of the darkspawn re-emerging later.

"Work on that was going fine; we had the northwest area rigged to go and were working on the southwest. The engineers said there was a good chance that whole area of land might fracture and drop when the explosives went, so we were clearing people out up above and planning to blow both sections at the same time. Thankfully it's all forested hills, so that just meant warning a few hunters and loggers to move on out of there," Podge had explained. "Then the day before yesterday we ran into a large group of darkspawn, mostly genlocks but with a bunch of hurlocks mixed in, and a couple ogres as well. We ended up in a fighting retreat, getting the engineers and the local helpers they'd hired out of there. Once we had them to safety we were able to concentrate on fighting the darkspawn, and killed them off. But when we checked the tunnels afterwards, we found signs that the ones we'd been fighting at the southern tunnels weren't the only ones who came out; there'd been more that emerged from the northern tunnel, and they'd split up and gone in two different directions."

Nathaniel had, at that point, split his own forces; he'd taken his patrol off after one group, sent Podge's group off after the other, and left Oghren behind to guard the sinkhole and their camp full of non-wardens in case any additional darkspawn showed up. A dangerous decision, but Loghain could see he hadn't had much choice; the darkspawn that had escaped could wreck considerable harm if they came across any of the small settlements that dotted the forest hereabouts, especially if they succeeded in capturing and returning underground with any females.

Loghain just hoped Nathaniel and his group had fared better against the darkspawn they'd gone after than Podge's group had. Knowing Velanna's destructive capabilities, they likely had, at least as long as they hadn't ended up facing rather more darkspawn than Podge's patrol had been treed by.

He glanced over to where Podge and his group were walking along by Alistair, Alistair having dismounted from and leading the gelding to more easily talk with them, the group of wardens effortlessly keeping up with the steady pace set by the soldier's horses. The boy was smiling at something Wilf was saying, actually looking relaxed and cheerful for once. It quite transformed his face, making his resemblance to Maric all the more obvious, at least to one who'd known Maric well. Loghain sighed silently and looked away, forcing his mind back to the matters at hand.

Hopefully they'd arrive at the sinkhole – less than an hour away by now – to find everything still stable. The worry was, of course, that things might have gone even further wrong since Podge and his patrol had set out in pursuit of the darkspawn. He could only hope that such worries proved unfounded, and meanwhile strained every sense for any hint of darkspawn or other wardens in the vicinity.

The sky was darkening, the first few stars appearing, when he finally felt the first hint of something in the distance. Wardens only, he was relieved to notice, no feeling of darkspawn, and since he knew from past experience that he could sense the latter from a longer distance than the former, that was entirely a good sign. He let Captain Dorn know, and they maintained their current pace, arriving at what was clearly the sinkhole a short time later.

It was much larger than he'd imagined; a truly vast cavern in the stone must have collapsed inwards for this large of a hole to have opened up. When he cautiously approached the edge and looked down, he could dimly see far below them and off to one side a darker patch that must be the northern tunnel entrance, at the top of a slanted ledge disappearing down underneath the small mountain of fractured stone that filled in where a deeper area of the cavern must once have been. The southern tunnel entrance was not visible from here, hidden from view behind that same pile of stone, even from this higher vantage point. He could make out the glow of campfires in the trees to the south; the warden's camp.

Podge led them around the sinkhole, keeping them all well back from the edge of it, explaining the rock there was still unstable and likely to crumble. Loghain could feel a warden approaching from the direction of the camp as they neared it; and passed the word to Captain Dorn that they were being met, just a few minutes before Nathaniel walked into view.

"Nathaniel, I'm relieved to see you. I assume by your presence that things are under control at the moment?"

"Hello, Commander. Yes, everything is fine right now," Nathaniel said, sounding tired, and nodded to Loghain before looking to where Podge and his group were. He smiled thinly. "I see you found our missing patrol."

"That he did," Podge agreed. "Good thing, too, it was a close call between whether we were going to finish off those darkspawn we'd been chasing or them finish off us instead."

Nathaniel nodded. "I worried, when you weren't already back when we returned; our own group was not large, but they travelled quickly and led us a lengthy chase before we finally caught up with them and finished them off."

"And how are things here at your camp?" Loghain answered.

"Peaceful, thankfully. Oghren's group are down in the tunnels right now with the engineers, making sure that the darkspawn have not disturbed the charges they set. We plan to detonate them tomorrow, assuming they haven't been disabled somehow; the southern tunnels aren't mined as far as we'd like, but the stone around here is brittle enough that the engineers think the area of destruction should bring down a goodly section beyond where they've mined. Far enough that the darkspawn would be unlikely to make any effort to dig their way back out again, anyway."

Loghain nodded. "We should continue on to your camp, so that these soldiers can settle in for the night," he said, signalling to Captain Dorn that they could resume their advance, then turned back to Nathaniel. "Do you have maps of the tunnels?"

"Of course," Nathaniel said, and fell in beside Loghain's horse as the army started up into motion once again. "I've marked on them what area we intend to collapse, as well as what we've explored of the area beyond them."

"Good," Loghain said. "I'll want to see that."

They arrived at the warden's camp within minutes. Loghain was pleased to see that Nathaniel had put some effort into making sure he had a good, defensible location, with a ditch and palisade having been erected around the camp. Too small for the entire army unit to fit within, but Dorn had his men clearing brush and pitching extra tents among the trees nearby almost as soon as they were off their horses.

Loghain passed off the reins of his stallion to Alistair, then started off with Nathaniel towards his tent. Nathaniel frowned at Loghain. "You're limping," he pointed out.

"I'm aware of that. Twisted my ankle a few days ago; sprained it. And then had to run on around on it earlier when we caught up with your missing wardens and their darkspawn. Which didn't hurt too badly at the time but I'm regretting deeply now; I fear I may have injured it further. I'll want Kedar to take a look at it when there's time, and see if he can do more for it than the army's herbalist could."

Nathaniel nodded, then ducked into his tent long enough to retrieve his roll of maps; wardens travelled light, and he didn't have a command tent, just a small one not large enough for much more than sleeping in. Captain Dorn, having left his second-in-command in charge of his men, caught up with them as Nathaniel re-emerged from his tent with the maps. Nate knelt down and unrolled them on the ground, for lack of any better surface, and started sorting through them looking for the one he needed. Dorn frowned at that, and whistled piercingly for one of his runners, and sent a message to his second-in-command to have his camp table fetched immediately.

The table was brought and the requisite map spread out on it, Nathaniel quickly indicating to them where the extents of the sinkhole were marked, and the warren of tunnels under the hills around it.

"We've circled around the collapsed area as best we can underground, and apart from the tunnels we're mining to the west, there doesn't seem to be anything within miles of it on any other side," he explained, running a hand along the extents of what they had mapped. "Unless there's a route that branches off somewhere further away, and passes either under or over the tunnels marked, these are the only tunnels that seem to pass through the area. But it's a maze down there, so I can't guarantee it."

Loghain nodded, looking over the map. "Good work," he said. And it was; short of spending a significantly longer period of time in exploration and mapping, Nathaniel had done pretty much all that could be done to be reasonably certain of sealing off the area surrounding the sinkhole.

"These markings here are the areas the engineers have rigged with explosives," Nathaniel continued. "And this shading indicates places they're certain those will bring down, while this lighter shading is tunnels and caves they think are likely to come down as well just from the disturbance. They've recommended we have everything clear of the larger area by at least a half mile though, in case the stone proves weaker than they thought; as many caves and tunnels as the limestone hereabouts contains, a larger collapse is at least a possibility."

Loghain nodded. "You seem to have things well in hand," he said approvingly. "When is Oghren's group due back?"

"Assuming they don't run into any further difficulties with darkspawn, they should be back by morning."

"Right. Well then, I suppose we might as well plan to retire early then. It sounds like all of us have had a long day already, and tomorrow is likely to be a busy one. Is there anything else you think I should know?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "No, unless you want a more detailed report about what we've seen and done."

"I do. But I trust your judgement as to whether or not I need to hear it now, or whether you'd prefer to deliver it later."

Nathaniel visibly wavered, then smiled crookedly. "Now, I think. I'm too on edge from recent events to sleep for a while anyway. And I'd rather trust your judgement than just my own."

"Right," Loghain said. "Captain Dorn, I'll let you know if there's anything else that comes up that you need to be aware of."

"Of course," Captain Dorn said, and made polite farewells to both of them before heading off to let his own people know what was going on, and that they could expect to move on again early the next day.

* * *

Alistair woke early, to faint sunlight beginning to filter through the canvas of their tent and a morning chorus of birdsong. He wasn't sure what had woken him, at first – the birds alone wouldn't normally be enough for it – until he caught the faint sounds of people moving around outside and the scent of frying bacon. Right. Early start today, so that everyone would be up and fed and ready to move on as soon as possible, assuming that when Oghren' group returned the news was good.

The faintest of snores made Alistair realize that Loghain was, for once, not already awake. So far on this journey he was usually already up, partially dressed, and shaved by the time Alistair woke up, or was rather pointedly woken by him. As a consequence it felt distinctly odd to look over and see him lying there with unshaven cheeks, eyes shut and mouth just slightly open, his face smoothed out in sleep. Though not all that much smoother, his features having a deep set of permanent lines, not to mention a growing network of faint wrinkles. Loghain's expression looked rather different when he was asleep, Alistair noticed as he sat up as silently as he could, most of the scowl lines having smoothed out, leaving the commander with more of a worried look than an angry one.

He'd have expected it to be the other way around, he found himself thinking, as he eased himself out of his bedroll and reached for his pack to dig out his shaving things, wondering how much of his morning routine he could get though before Loghain woke. It would be nice to be the one already up and shaven for a change. He'd forgotten how sensitive to odd sounds the commander was though; something in his pack made a noise as it shifted, and Loghain was suddenly awake and looking around, one hand hidden under his pillow. Alistair froze, startled by the sudden movement.

Loghain blinked sleepily, then sighed and lay back again. "Oh. Morning," he said, and scrubbed at his face with one hand. "Finish what you're doing, then go find me some tea. And Kedar. I should have had him look at this blighted ankle last night."

"Yes ser," Alistair said, grabbed his shaving kit and a change of clothes, and crawled out of their tent in search of water to shave with. He was far from the only one already up and about on such an errand, and quickly joined a lineup to get a bowl of water, and then stopped by the cookfires to cadge a mug of tea for Loghain. He spotted Kedar on his way back, and let him know that Loghain needed his services once he was available, and then continued back to the tent, passing the tea in to the commander before sitting down to shave his own face. He'd shaved and changed from his night shirt into gambeson and leggings, and fetched a second tea for Loghain, as well a mug full for himself, before Kedar finally put in an appearance, already fully dressed and immaculately groomed.

The mage crouched down in the doorway to the tent, asking questions and examining Loghain's swollen ankle carefully before wrapping long-fingered hands around it, a faint healing aura welling up around them. "I think you're right, by the amount of swelling I think you must have re-injured it yesterday," Kedar said, frowning slightly over it. "This will fix the worst of it, but I would recommend keeping it strapped for several days to prevent it happening again. And let me know if you feel any additional pain."

Loghain nodded, and thanked Kedar for his help, then sent Alistair off to fetch shaving water for him while he changed. And once he'd returned with that, sent him off again, in search of breakfast for the two of them.

Alistair had just returned to their tent with tin plates heaped with hotcakes and bacon when Loghain suddenly rose to his feet, looking off northwards. "More wardens coming; Oghren's group must be returning at last," he said.

It was uncanny how he did that, Alistair thought, unable to even pick out any wardens yet beyond the feeling of the ones already right in camp. But Loghain insisted on them going to the gate, leaving their still-untouched plates of food behind. Sure enough, Oghren's group was just arriving back at camp, as well as the pair of dwarven engineers from the keep and a few unknown faces who must be local hired help. All of them looked tired, but that was hardly surprising considering they'd been in the deep roads since some time the day before.

"Commander!" Oghren exclaimed, a grin lighting his face. "Glad to see you made it down here in one piece."

"Oghren," Loghain said, nodding toward the dwarf. "I'll want to hear your report right away. How do things look down below?"

"Short version is things look fine and we can fire off the charges as soon as everyone has moved out of the area, which judging by all the extra bodies I'm seeing here will take some time. Is it okay if I get on the outside of some food while I tell you the long version?"

"Not at all, I was just about to sit down and eat breakfast myself. You and your patrol and the engineers should join me. Alistair, run ahead and let Nathaniel and Captain Dorn know Oghren is back. Then go fetch another six servings of breakfast."

Alistair nodded, and headed back through the camp at a trot. He met Nathaniel already headed for the gate, and confirmed that, yes, Oghren's group was indeed back, and let him know that Loghain planned to hear Oghren's report over breakfast.

"Excellent. I'll go join them. Could you fetch me breakfast, please," Nathaniel said, and hurried off toward the gate without waiting for an answer.

Alistair supposed that fell into the category of an order that didn't conflict with those already given to him by Loghain anyway, and continued on, finding Captain Dorn just sitting down to his own breakfast within the command tent. He looked quite pleased by Alistair's news. "Excellent. Though they might as well come here to eat, where we've a proper table and chairs. Please let Loghain know I've offered my tent, and then, if you wouldn't mind, inform the cooks to serve food here."

"Of course," Alistair said, and bowed in salute, then hurried back off toward the gate again, meeting Loghain and the others already halfway back. He passed on Captain Dorn's invitation to make use of the command tent, then turned around yet again to hurry off and let the cooks know about breakfast for eight being needed there. He was almost back to the tent again before he realized that he'd forgotten to ask for a serving for himself as well. Then he remembered the breakfasts he'd fetched earlier, and hurried on to his and Loghain's tent.

Someone, however, had beaten him to it – both platefuls of food were empty, Crunch stretched out beside them, asleep. Alistair was standing there indecisively, trying to decide whether he should go ask for food again, or head back to Captain's Dorn tent, when he heard Loghain call his name. He looked around, and saw the commander leaning out the doorway of Dorn's tent.

"Don't just stand around over there doing nothing, I need you to take notes. Fetch your writing things and get back here," he ordered, then disappeared back inside.

"Yes, ser," Alistair called after him, and ducked into their tent long enough to grab the writing case he'd been supplied with, then hurried over to Dorn's tent.

Sitting there jotting down notes while everyone else was busy stuffing themselves full of fragrant hotcakes and crispy bacon, not to mention drinking cup after cup of hot sweet tea, was pure torture. The only thing that prevented his stomach from growling embarrassingly was that he'd had that one mug of tea earlier, so it wasn't entirely empty. Still, concentrating on listening and writing down important bits was made much more difficult when all he could think of was hotcakes and bacon.

He was trying to make sense of something one of the engineers was explaining about the nature of the stone hereabouts when he felt a touch at his elbow, and looked that way to see a hotcake folded in half around a couple of slices of bacon sitting there. He glanced at Loghain, the person on that side of him, but the commander seemed utterly unaware of it, being busy listening to the dwarf, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Was it Loghain who'd put it there? Or someone else?

Not that he was about to say no to food. He put down his pen long enough to pick it up, bite off a sizable mouthful of it, and transfer the remainder to his left hand before quickly picking up his pen again. He took smaller bites after that first one, stretching out the bit of food until shortly before the meeting finally ended, Oghren and the others having talked themselves out about everything they'd seen and done.

"We'll be able to move out of the area as soon as everything's packed up again," Captain Dorn said. "Call it another hour for all my men to be ready."

"About the same for the local help," Nathaniel said. "Perhaps a little longer."

Loghain nodded. "Excellent. We should be able to set off the explosives and seal off this area by noon then, if not earlier. There's a good-sized meadow by a river about a half hour's ride southeast of here, if I recall correctly. That would be a good place to move our camp to. Oghren and the others will need rest, before we can go much further, and we'll need to decide what if anything remains to be done in the way of mopping up around here anyway, though discussion of that can wait until after the move."

"That sounds good," Dorn said, Nathaniel nodding his own agreement.

Loghain rose to his feet. "Well, we've much to do still this morning; best we get to it."

Everyone made varying sounds of agreement and rose, polite bows being exchanged as they exited from the tent and scattered in various directions.

"Right," Loghain said, striding toward their tent. "Alistair, I'll want you to make a clear copy of your notes later, for my own records. For now just pack them where you can find them again, and then see to getting all our gear picked up and packed away again. I'm going to need my horse, I'll want to take a ride around the area before we depart. You'll accompany me on that, so pack _quickly_. But first, go see if you can cadge anything from the cooks to fill that gaping pit of a belly of yours. Hurry, they'll be packing up already."

"Yes, ser!" Alistair exclaimed, dipped a bow to Loghain, and hurried off.


	30. Delayed Reactions

Alistair cautiously followed Loghain to the edge of the vast sinkhole, not liking being so close to the drop, especially after Podge having told them the day before that the stone was still unstable. But he didn't want to hang back when Loghain was so clearly unconcerned about it. He just hoped the commander was right.

 _The commander_. He couldn't even remember when he'd first started thinking of Loghain by that particular term. Other than that it had to have been fairly recently, and he hadn't even been aware of the change in his thinking that allowed him to do so. There was a time he'd have seen applying that title to Loghain as some sort of betrayal of Duncan, and everything Duncan had been and stood for. But... it _wasn't_. Loghain was, if anything, very much like Duncan in how he perceived and carried out his role of Warden-Commander. Which was, in many ways, a deeply disturbing realization for Alistair to be adapting to. There was so much he'd admired in Duncan, so much he'd hated in Loghain... Was it Loghain who had changed, or just his own perceptions of him? Considering the question made him uneasy. He put it aside for another time.

Loghain was standing silently, just looking at the huge pile of dusty rock far below, an odd expression on his face. Alistair looked back and forth between the two, wondering what Loghain was seeing that he wasn't. Some memory it evoked, perhaps; he didn't think Loghain was actually seeing the pile. He waited a while, then cleared his throat; they didn't have all that long until everyone would be leaving, the charges set off to collapse the tunnels and deny the darkspawn any further easy exit from here.

Loghain glanced his way, then sighed and stepped back from the edge, before leading the way back to where they'd left their horses. "I suppose we'd better get back to camp," he said, but still took a moment to stand and scratch the stallion's nose before mounting up.

"Have you thought of a name for him yet?" Alistair asked as they continued on toward camp.

"Hmmm? Oh, the stallion. No, not yet. Why? Have a suggestion?"

"No, not really. Just curious."

Loghain smiled slightly, and patted the horse's neck. "I really do need to think of something. He deserves a name as magnificent as he is. Something better than 'the stallion' or 'Silk', or whatever lengthy string of Antivan names and words his pedigree actually lists him as."

Alistair nodded, then patted his own horse's shoulder. "I like Brunnera. It has a nice sound."

Loghain gave a short laugh. "Do you know what it means?"

"I didn't know it had any meaning," Alistair admitted.

"It's an old word – Tevinter or Avvar, I forget which now. It's the name of a kind of flower found in the mountains. A low-growing plant all covered with little blue flowers. Though in the common tongue it's the shape of its leaves it gets its name from, nothing to do with the flowers; it's called heartleaf."

"Oh," Alistair said, and thought for a moment. "I still like the way it sounds," he said after a while, and patted the gelding's shoulder again. When he looked up afterwards he thought he caught a glimpse of a slight smile before Loghain looked away.

Crunch bounded out of the bushes, startling the horses slightly; the stallion more than the gelding, Brunnera having had more exposure to the mabari so far. Loghain scolded the dog for it; Crunch looked hangdog for a moment, then dropped back to walk alongside Alistair's horse, tail wagging and almost prancing with enjoyment. Just watching him brought a smile to Alistair's face. "He certainly likes it around here, darkspawn or no darkspawn."

"He's probably been chasing after rabbits," Loghain said. "He likes..."

"...to give them to people. Yes, I know," Alistair said. "Thankfully I wasn't his favourite person to give them to."

"No, that was Morrigan," Loghain agreed, and smiled, giving Crunch a look. "Doubtless Crunch thought that someone who could turn herself into a bear would appreciate some nice ripe carrion."

Crunch barked once in response, the blur of his quickly-wagging tail stub and lift of his ears making it clear that it was a bark of agreement.

The camp came back into the sight, the palisade empty of everything but a few fire-pits and log seats, everything else having been taken down, packed up, put away, or in the case of the slit trenches, filled in. The army, most of the wardens, and the local labour were all gathering outside, ready to head off to the new camp site. To one side stood the group who'd be remaining behind to set off the explosives; the two dwarven engineers, and Oghren's group, all of them with horses to ride in order to get out of the area as quickly as possible once the fuses were lit. Loghain and Alistair would also be remaining, Loghain preferring not to leave the area himself until the last possible moment, just in case more darkspawn did put in an appearance.

"Go join Oghren," Loghain told Alistair, and then touched heels to the stallion's flanks, heading over to say a final few words to Captain Dorn.

Oghren and his men were all looking tired; they'd been up since some time the day before. Jowan had dark bags under his eyes, and Cale and Edrick were both sitting on the ground with their backs against a rock, napping as they waited for things to get underway. It made Alistair wonder why Loghain hadn't told off this group to move with the army, while Nathaniel's group stayed behind. Though perhaps Loghain felt it was better to leave Nathaniel's group split in two as it was, and preferred the group left behind all be experienced wardens. And Oghren, having been the one to bring the engineers here, as well as being a dwarf himself, seem to have a good working relationship with the pair.

Alistair dismounted, nodding greetings to Oghren and Jowan, and tied his gelding with their mounts. He went and leaned against the same rock Jowan was leaning back against, half sitting on its slanted top. Crunch followed him, and nosed interested at Jowan, snuffling at his clothing.

Jowan smiled, and fended off the dog's overly inquisitive nose, then squatted down and dug the fingers of both hands into the dog's ruff, scratching vigorously. "Good to see you again too," he said fondly to the mabari. Which surprised Alistair for a moment, until he realized that of course all the other wardens except the most recent additions would already know Crunch; they'd have had a couple of years at Vigil's Keep to get to know one another. Alistair wondered if Crunch, having been at Redcliffe, remembered that Jowan had been someone Solona knew. There was no opportunity to ask, before Loghain returned, the army – and everyone else – departing, leaving them to see to the explosives.

Loghain tied the stallion near the other horses, then looked around. "Right. We'll split up into two groups for this, an engineer and three wardens in each. Oghren, who would you like to send with Alistair and I?"

"I'll go," Cale said, without even opening his eyes.

Oghren grinned. "I guess I'll send Cale with you," he said.

Loghain nodded. "Right. Cale it is then," he agreed. "Since Alistair and I have the best horses, I suppose my group might as well take the northern tunnel; leave the best two of the remainder for Cale and... Hern, wasn't it?" he asked one of the two engineers.

Hern nodded. "Aye," he agreed, giving the tall horses an unhappy look.

"Let's get in position; we'll give the others half an hour to clear the area. I've borrowed a horn, I'll blow a signal when it's time to light the fuses."

Hern spoke up. "It might be best if the other group delays a few minutes before starting the second timer, since we'll have to pass their position on the way back out. The fuses have a substantial delay before things will start going off, but better safe than sorry."

Loghain nodded. "That sounds reasonable. How long are you thinking?"

"No more than three to five minutes; we want them going off pretty close together, but Kev knows how to adjust the fuse to allow for that small of a difference in lighting times."

"See to it, Oghren," Loghain ordered, then sighed and stretched. "Well, we might as well get down there and in position. Crunch, you stay here with the horses and make sure they don't wander off."

The mabari snorted his opinion of that, but stretched out on the ground to wait for their return.

The trail down into the sink hole was steep, a matter of edging along narrow ledges until they reached the point where they could clamber over the surface of the rock pile. Oghren's group headed over to the southern entrance, just a short distance east of there, while Loghain's group had to cross the sinkhole to the far side, a process that took several minutes to accomplish.

Once they reached the northern tunnel, Hern uncovered the triggering device, which had been carefully hidden away beneath a stack of small chunks of rock. It looked like nothing more than a simple metal box, until he opened the lid and checked the gears inside. Hern took a key-like tool out of his pocket, inserted it into a hole, and wound up a spring, carefully flipping a little metal thing to hold the gears from turning, and then gently closed the lid again. "Ready when you are," he told Loghain, and sat down on a nearby rock to wait.

They all sat, except Loghain, Cale sitting down with his back against a rock and seemingly nodding off again, Alistair sitting down on a larger rock nearby, arms folded across his chest. He watched as Loghain paced back and forth, then walked over to where he could stare into the cave opening.

"I'm just as glad we don't have to go into there," Alistair said after a while, the silence beginning to grate on his nerves. "The Deep Roads have never been my favourite place."

Loghain snorted. "I don't think they're anyone's favourite place, really. Except possibly the dwarves," he amended, glancing at Hern.

"Maybe before the Blights started they were, but that was quite a few years back now," Hern pointed out. "Most dwarves don't see any more of the Deep Roads than the surfacers do. Just Orzammar. I was born in Amarathine City; I never say the Deep Roads at all until after I came to Vigil's Keep to apprentice with the Dworkin brothers. Impressive stonework in them, but not somewhere that I exactly long to spend my time. I prefer sky overhead, not the Stone."

Alistair smiled. "Me too. Some parts are just amazing; the scale of the spaces, or the beauty of them. But mostly it's dark, either too hot or too cold, and swarming with nasty creatures."

"I'll second that," Cale agreed. "The worst part is when you end up on a long run in them and have to scavenge for food," he added, and shuddered theatrically as he levered himself into a more upright sitting position. "Nug isn't too bad, but deep-stalker... _ugh!_ "

"I'd rather have deep stalker than deep mushrooms. No matter how you prepare them, they're so rubbery you have to chew them forever to get a bite down. And the flavour!" Alistair said, and made a face. "Over two years since I last had to eat one and I'd still rather pick bits of lichen off a rock to eat than eat another deep mushroom. They're better than starving, but not by much."

Cale laughed. "I've avoided those so far. Though we had to eat giant spider once or twice."

" _Urgh_ , don't remind me! Zevran claimed the taste put him in mind of some type of seafood. Cryst... crust..."

"Crustaceans," Loghain supplied, turning to look back over his shoulder at them. "He means lobsters and crabs and so forth. Or crayfish."

Cale looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't say giant spider tasted much like any of those. More of a rancid poultry flavour."

"I don't think I want to know how you know what rancid poultry tastes like," Alistair said.

Cale grinned. "Probably a wise decision. Ever tried bronto?"

"Yeah. Not bad, pretty tough though, unless you've got time to spare to let it stew for a long time. Assuming you have any wood for cooking. Or know the lava trick."

Cale's grin widened. "I'm in Oghren's patrol, of course we all know the lava trick."

"Oh, right... he was the one that taught it to us," Alistair admitted, feeling stupid for not having guessed the other wardens would know it already.

"The lava trick?" Hern asked, looking a little perplexed.

"You don't know the lava trick? Wow," Alistair said. "Okay, there's not exactly any great quantity of firewood lying around in the Deep Roads. Odds and ends of old wooden structures, or wood the Legions have hauled in to make barriers, or the darkspawn dragged in to make fetishes and stuff out of, sometimes, but it's pretty rare. But there _are_ a lot of places where there's lava, in channels or pools. So you make sure you have a long chain with a hook on one end in your gear, and a cauldron with a good strong bale handle, and then whenever you can, you suspend the cauldron over lava to use the heat from that for your cooking, so what wood you do find you can save for places where there's nothing else to use. It's a little tricky to do, since you have to find a place where you can hang it without ending up baking important bits of yourself. And keep it far enough from the lava that it's not _too_ hot. Fumeroles work well too, as long as they're not the kind that spit geysers."

"Huh," Hern said, then smiled. "I'll have to remember that if I ever get dragged off on a job involving the Deep Roads again. Though I'm going to hope that I never need to know it."

"I believe it's time," Loghain said, looking up at the walls of the sinkhole to gauge the angle of the sun, even as he pulled the horn free from where it hung at his belt.

Hern grunted, and walked back over to the box, lifting the lid for a moment to shift the position of something inside. The gears slowly started to turn. "That's done it," Hern said as he lowered the lid gently. "It'll light the fuse once the spring winds down."

Loghain nodded, and blew a couple of loud blasts on the horn, then they started back south across the pile of stone. It took long enough that by the time they came in sight of the southern tunnel and the ledge up, Oghren's group was already most of the way up the ledge. Loghain's group climbed as quickly as they could, none of them wanting to linger in the area.

Oghren's group had already ridden off by the time they reached the top. Cale boosted the dwarf up on top of the horse left for him. "Just hold on tight," he said, then tied Hern's horse's reins to the saddle of his own horse before mounting up.

"Right, let's get out of here," Loghain said, and they set off after Oghren's group at a fast pace, Crunch running alongside the horses, Hern looking white-faced as he clutched tightly to the saddle horn. Thankfully it wasn't very long – only five to ten minutes – before they reached where Oghren's group had stopped, well out of range of the area expected to be affected. All of them quickly dismounted, it having been decided that it was undoubtedly safer to not be on horseback when the charges went off; there was no telling how the animals might react to it.

It wasn't very long until they found out. A distant rumble and a slight shaking underfoot heralded the beginning of the explosions. The fuses had been arranged so that they wouldn't go off all at once, but instead in a staggered fashion along the length of the mined sections, from the entrance inwards, so that each explosion cracked the rock nearby, and blew clear stone to make way for the next explosion, which would have much greater effect on the rock than if all the charges went off at once. As a consequence, the rumbling and shaking went on for some time, and all of the horses clearly disapproved of it, either standing with legs stiffened and eyes rolling whitely, dancing around nervously with much whinnying, or, in the case of the stallion and the elderly mare Jowan had been riding, rearing and plunging as they tried to bolt.

Loghain had the stallion well in hand, but Alistair had to hurry over and help Jowan, who was pale with fright as his normally placid horse plunged up and down, almost yanking him off his feet. The mage had at least maintained a hold on the horse's reins despite his fear, and quickly backed off once Alistair took hold of the reins.

The rumbling faded away. The horses gradually calmed down again, though it was obvious from their behaviour that they were all still frightened and nervous from the – to them – inexplicable sound and motion.

"I'd like to see what effect that's had," Loghain said, and eyed the horses, who were still visibly nervous. "We'd better walk until the horses have had a chance to recover."

They headed back the way they'd come, leading their mounts. Through gaps in the trees they could see a cloud of dust rising and dissipating over the forest to the northwest. Apart from that everything looked much as usual, until they finally came in view of the sinkhole itself. The western side of it had slumped visibly, no longer a vertical cliff but a steep slope of rubble instead. The southern and northern tunnel entrances had disappeared entirely, not just collapsed in on themselves, but where they had been now buried under tons of fractured rock where the entire cliff face had cracked off and slid down into the pit. The forested hills to the west also were changed; marked by downed swathes of trees, jumbles of rock and vegetation, and pale slashes of newly exposed stone where areas of the landscape had fractured and dropped as the warren of tunnels and caverns the limestone was riddled with had collapsed.

Loghain sighed. "That whole area is going to have to be searched, to make sure that in sealing the openings here we haven't opened others elsewhere, no matter how unlikely it might seem. But that will have to wait; doubtless the area will be unsafe for some time, until the rock has had a chance to finish settling."

"Give it a week or two and at least one good rainstorm, and it should be reasonably stable," Hern spoke up. "Water flowing down through the areas of broken rock will help with the initial settling, though doubtless it will continue to subside for some time yet to come. But I'll be very surprised if there's a passable tunnel anywhere between the sinkhole and the old north-south road to the west of it."

"Will this have damaged the deep road itself at all?" Alistair asked curiously.

"Shouldn't have," Hern said. "The Ancestors built well, and we didn't mine all the way to the road itself."

"We debated trying to bring down a section of it," Oghren spoke up. "I didn't like all the signs of darkspawn travel along it. But Hern said we'd have needed considerably more explosive charges, and experts to lay them in order to bring down a big enough section to block it; all that reinforcement work along it would have resisted a lot more than this limestone did. Crumbly stuff; might as well be cheese for all the strength it has."

"It would have been a shame to risk damage to the old outpost, anyway," Kev, the other engineer, pointed out. "Lovely bit of stonework there."

"Outpost?" Loghain asked, frowning. "I don't recall anyone mentioning an outpost."

Hern spoke up again. "We saw it when we were exploring with Nathaniel's group, some miles north of here up the old road. There was an old barrier door there, and beside it an outpost cavern – not a very large one – with some beautiful reinforcement work, including a central pillar carved as a figure. We rarely carve stone like that any more; don't have enough craftsmen for it."

"Not... not a statue of King Endrin Stonehammer?" Loghain asked in a strange voice. Alistair glanced at him and saw the man had gone pale, the blood leaving his face as if he'd seen or heard some shocking thing.

"Why, yes, it was," Hern said, sounding surprised, then frowned. "You have seen this place before."

"Yes, I may have. The floor near the statue – was it disturbed?"

"Graves," Hern agreed. "The Legion of the Dead does that, when they're still in enough strength to do anything for their fallen beyond leaving them for the darkspawn."

"I know. I saw them dug," Loghain said, and dropped the stallion's reins to the ground, then walked a few paces away. "Over thirty years ago now," he added, his voice low and even more rasping than usual.

Alistair felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The flight through the Deep Roads; every child in Ferelden knew at least the broad outlines of that story, even if the fine details had never been recorded by any of the surviving members of it.

Loghain suddenly froze, then spun back around, brow furrowed. "The door, the barrier door; did you leave it open, or close it?"

"We closed it, of course," Hern said.

"Oghren, you mentioned signs of darkspawn travel; small groups going back and forth over a long time, or recent groups, especially any large ones?"

Oghren blinked, confused. "Errr... recent, I think. At least one or two large groups recently, I think. Nathaniel could tell you better, he's a far finer tracker than I am."

Loghain cursed. "Maker blight me... I should have taken a closer look at things myself, or at least thought to question Nathaniel more about what _his_ group had seen instead of just concentrating on the most recent report from Oghren. Did the travel seem particularly heavy in either direction?"

Oghren frowned. "I'm not sure..."

"Southwards," Edrick spoke up. "We may not have gone as far as this outpost you're speaking of, but we saw that section of deep roads. Most of the footprints I saw were of large groups heading southwards, though there'd also been at least one small group northbound fairly recently."

Loghain paled again. "Andraste wept. Quick, to horse – we have to get the army headed south to Gwaren."

"To Gwaren? Why?" Oghren asked, even as Edrick unceremoniously boosted him up into his saddle, Alistair and Cale moving to do the same for the pair of engineers.

"Because this section of road that we've just blocked off has a second exit, which _isn't_ protected by a dwarven barrier door, but only by shoddy human construction," Loghain grated out. "And it's in an unguarded cavern on the outskirts of Gwaren, just a little over a day's travel south. If the darkspawn have been travelling southwards in large groups, they may already be working on trying to break through there."

"And even if they weren't, they're now trapped in this section of deep roads and may try anyway," Oghren exclaimed.

"Exactly," Loghain said grimly. "Catch up with us at the camp," he commanded. "Alistair, with me."


	31. A Race Against Darkspawn

It was a ride that Alistair felt he would remember the rest of his life; first the race to catch up with the army where they were already making camp a couple of miles away, then heading to Gwaren at as much speed as they could make. Loghain was worried enough that he had Dorn split the army, the slowest horses and the baggage train being left to pack up camp and then follow at their own speed while the remainder raced ahead. He also requested that the wardens – most of whom were on poor mounts – be remounted out of the army's horses, so that they might all be in the forefront of the run to Gwaren. Dorn agreed, knowing how big a difference even one warden could make in a fight, and most particularly in a fight against darkspawn.

The two dwarven engineers were also brought along, what remained of their supplies loaded on a pair of mules who loudly protested the speed of their journey at first, but were given little choice but to race along with the horses. The pair of dwarfs seemed little less happy than the mules, liking neither the speed they were moving nor the height they were having to travel at. They rode without stopping, only slowing as necessary to rest the horses enough so that they wouldn't founder.

It was a vast relief when they topped a ridge overlooking Gwaren that afternoon and found the city – more of a large walled town than a true city – looking peaceful and undisturbed. Loghain gave a single, relieved sigh. "We're not too late," was all he said, and then led the way down the hill, the city disappearing behind a screening wall of tall trees as the road curved down the hillside.

When they came in sight of the city gates a messenger separated from their group, heading to the city to make sure everything was fine there, and the city guards warned. Loghain turned them off onto a narrower road that skirted along the outside of the walls before turning to the southwest, winding its way among the bluffs and headlands of the coast.

Alistair knew when they were close to the cave Loghain had spoken of; he could _feel_ it. So could the other wardens.

"More darkspawn," Oghren grated out, sounding tired. Though he and his group had every right to be tired, not having had any chance to rest yet.

"Yes," Loghain agreed, and turned in his saddle to signal to Captain Dorn, a rapid exchange of hand signals between the two men leading to Dorn shouting orders and everyone stopping to dismount, the horses all gathered and roped together.

They advanced on foot, the wardens leading the way, everyone with weapons in hand.

"There should be a small stockade surrounding the cave entrance, and a gate blocking it," Loghain explained. "It's more designed to keep curious people and wild animals out than to keep anything in, however it should make it at least slightly more difficult for the darkspawn to exit the cave. With luck they're not even that far yet, but instead are still working on breaking through the wall blocking the old outpost exit."

"What happened to the original door?" Kev asked. "Good dwarven construction should have lasted for centuries."

"It did," Loghain said. "Though even good dwarven construction proved to be not up entirely up to the corrosive effects of sea air; the Legion of the Dead had to melt their way through it with acid when a group of them came above ground with King Maric back during the Rebellion. After which the door was no longer operable. Nor repairable. We blocked it off as best we could at the time, and later once I was made Teyrn of Gwaren I had human masons do what they could to seal it off. But even 10 feet of packed rubble and a solidly built masonry wall won't last forever against darkspawn."

Hern and Kev both snorted, their opinion of human craftsmanship not needing any more comment than that. Loghain actually smiled slightly, looking amused. "It was the best I could afford at the time; I'd have preferred to hire dwarves to seal the entrance, but unlike northern Ferelden there are no surfacer dwarf enclaves around here, and it would have cost a small fortune to import any dwarves from the north for the job, especially when there was already so many lucrative jobs being offered during the rebuilding. There was no money to spare, and certainly not a fortune of any size of it. Anyway, the point is that the wall will hold for a while, but is far from solid enough to keep them from breaking through."

They came in sight of the stockade he'd mentioned a few minutes later, set in a clearing to one side of the road, at the base of a steep outcrop of limestone. It all looked peaceful enough; had it not been for the way the senses of the wardens were tingling, there wouldn't have been any reason to suspect that darkspawn were in the process of digging their way out.

_Had_ dug their way out, they had proof of a moment later, when a loud roar sounded from somewhere beyond the heavy gate sealing an opening at the back of the stockaded area, audible even from where they were. "Ogre," several of the wardens said in unison, including Loghain and Alistair. The gate shuddered visibly a moment later from some heavy impact, followed by a second loud roar and a chorus of lesser ones. The darkspawn could sense the wardens just as the wardens could sense them, and were clearly enraged by their presence.

The wardens hurried forward, Loghain exchanging hand signals with Dorn again as they moved, the army spreading out to surround the stockade while the wardens headed straight for the gates into it, a unit of archers hurrying to where they could climb up the bluff and get to a position looking down into the stockade. The best plan was obvious; to keep the darkspawn contained within the stockade, the wardens and the army keeping them penned there and killing any that tried to escape it, while the archers picked the darkspawn off from above.

The gate sealing the cave shuddered again, then again, then suddenly splintered outwards, beginning to give way as the ogre rammed repeatedly into it.

"Keep this outer gate closed, or open it, commander?" Nathaniel asked, eyeing the chain and lock that held it shut. "I doubt that chain will last long against an ogre."

"Best we open it, I think," Loghain said. "Rather than risk being surprised when it gives way."

Nathaniel nodded, pulled a set of pick-locks out of his belt pouch, and had the lock open and the chain on the ground within moments. They swung the stockade gates open and took their positions just in time, the gate at the cave mouth finally giving way, an ogre roaring in fury as it shouldered its way out. The darkness behind it seethed with motion as more darkspawn followed in its wake, pushing aside the shattered remnants of the heavy beams that had made up the gate as they emerged.

The wardens readied themselves, Loghain and Alistair anchoring the centre, with Oghren's group to one side of them, Nathaniel's group – his original one – to their left, and the newer wardens in a second line behind them. Bowstrings sang as arrows flew, arching up and then falling down among the press of darkspawn. Roars made it clear that the arrows were finding targets. The ogre bellowed angrily, swiping at its head where a couple of arrows hung in its brow and cheek, having missed its vulnerable eyes, then charged forward. The wardens braced themselves, Loghain and Alistair shouting in unison to gain its attention.

Loghain engaged it first, bracing himself to parry a blow that came close to knocking him off his feet. Alistair moved to the right, planning to take a swing at its neck while it was distracted by Loghain, but was buffeted away by a blow to the chest from its arm before he could get close enough to take a swing. Oghren ducked under the arm and swung at its ankle, while on the far side of it Alistair caught a glimpse of Podge hewing away with paired hand-axes at the ogre's side, and Crunch darting back and forth as he tried to find a piece of it he could attempt sinking his teeth into.

The ogre bellowed again, swatting angrily at the wardens. They scattered, then closed in again. The larger mass of darkspawn, meanwhile, had split into several groups, the largest group of them coming up behind the ogre and trying to get at the wardens, and several smaller groups trying to either break out of the stockade, or scale the face of the bluff to where the archers were located.

The ogre crouched and then charged forward, butting horns-first into Loghain and sending him stumbling backwards, a whoop escaping him as the air was forced from his lungs by the impact. He wavered, then fell to the ground, face reddening as he tried to catch his breath. Alistair sprang after the ogre with another loud cry, attracting its attention before it could attack the fallen man. It turned and then swung both arms at him, forcing him to duck out of the way of one arm and block the blow of the second with raised shield, wincing at the force of the impact.

With the ogre out of their way, the mass of darkspawn behind it began to press out of the gate, forcing most of the wardens to turn away from it in order to deal with them instead, Crunch staying with the wardens rather than pursuing the ogre. Loghain was soon back on his feet, he and Alistair keeping the ogre occupied while the three hunters – Bekka, Gabe and Lew – peppered it with arrows, Wilf standing back with his mallet in hands, moving from side to side but unable to get in close enough to take a swing at the monster. The ogre bellowed in fury, maddened by the arrows, and swung its arms around again. Loghain dodged out of the way, but didn't move quite far enough, the ogre's hand clipping his shoulder hard enough to spin him around and send him staggering a few steps to one side before he caught his balance again. Alistair ducked, but didn't move far enough away, and suddenly found himself in a position he'd been in before and never liked, caught in an ogre's hand and being swept up into the air.

Both hands closed around him, the ogre roaring at him as its massive fingers tightened painfully around him, only his armour saving him from a rapid, painful death. Which probably meant he was going to have a slow, painful death instead, he found himself thinking dizzily, unable to breathe as the pressure of its hands increased, its thumbs steadily compressing the jointed plates of armour that normally protected his stomach.

Something shot by his head, passing so close to his cheek he felt the wind of its passage and heard the faint sound it made as air parted around it. There was a very meaty-sounding _thunk_ and a crack of bone as the flat top of Wilf's mallet smacked solidly into the ogre's forehead between its horns, the miller having apparently thrust with its long handle like a spear or pole-arm rather than swinging it. The ogre's hands loosened, Alistair dropping to his knees as he gasped for breath, vision tunnelled and full of silver sparks from his lack of air.

There was a loud shout, and he looked up dizzily just in time to see Loghain leap past him, arms spreading wide for balance before his feet crashed into the ogre's chest, knocking it over backwards. The commander reversed his sword, taking the hilt in both hands before driving it down into the indented spot where the mallet had cracked its skull. The ogre convulsed and wailed once as it died, then went limp.

Wilf hooked a hand under Alistair's arm and hauled him easily back to his feet. "Thanks," Alistair gasped out, then looked at the mallet hanging from the tall man's other hand, and grinned. "You've good aim with that."

Wilf smiled almost shyly, looking pleased. "Have to, in the mill," he said.

"Good work, but we're hardly done yet," Loghain said as he rose back to his feet, having to brace himself for a moment to pull his gore-covered sword free. "There are still plenty more darkspawn to kill."

They returned to battle, rejoining the other wardens in fighting the darkspawn trying to press out of the gate. Alistair and Loghain anchored the centre of the line again, a little wider apart now so that Wilf could make use of his mallet in the gap between them, the three hunters remaining far enough back from them to continue using their bows. Alistair soon found himself falling into a once-familiar rhythm of movement; fending off attacks with his shield, defending or attacking with his sword, genlocks and hurlocks trying to kill him and being killed by him instead, or by sudden darts of Loghain's sword or Wilf's mallet, or by the arrows that appeared at irregular intervals. He was conscious, in a rather distracted way, of how well the two groups of wardens to either side worked, the silent teamwork of partners well-used to each other.

To his right there was Edrick moving about with surprising speed and dexterity for his size, a long dagger in one hand and a nasty-looking implement – a cargo hook, a dockman's weapon – in his other. His long arm would stretch out, and the sharp hook would effortlessly snag some darkspawn, yanking it in range of the cutting blade, then he'd shake the wounded creature free in range of Oghren's axe or Cale's hammer. Jowan was tucked in behind the three, healing them when they took damage from the darkspawn, his magics slowing the darkspawn and speeding his companions.

To the left was Nathaniel's group, the man having put aside his bow for now and instead using a longsword and dagger, chopping up the darkspawn as coolly as a farm-wife cutting up chicken for the pot. Podge stood on one side of him, wielding paired hand axes, Brann on the other, with paired daggers. Nothing that came near them got away unscathed from all those sharp edges. Velanna was doing little in the way of healing, but a great deal in the way of damaging the darkspawn herself, summoning thorn-covered brambles and roots that tore at the darkspawn, held them fast while the three men dealt with them, flinging out crackling attacks of lightning-based magic whenever the press of still-living bodies became too great.

There was a splintering sound and a chorus of roars and shouts off to one side; a group of darkspawn had broken down a section of the stockade and were beginning to push through the opening. Soldiers were closing in on the opening.

"Alistair, Wilf, hold here – you three, with me," Loghain snapped out, and sprinted off in that direction, the three hunters falling in behind him.

Wilf moved forward and left a little toward the spot Loghain had been in, where he'd have some defence from darkspawn on one side from Alistair's shield-work, and could make full use of his mallet. Sometimes he swung it two-handed, but mostly he used it like a thrusting weapon, one hand tight around the butt, the other loose around the long shaft, serving as support and guide. It didn't do as much damage that way – though as heavy as the metal head was, the impacts were still enough to break bone and pulp flesh – but it also left him far less open to counter-attacks by the darkspawn than swinging it would have. And he had almost uncanny aim with the thing, shattering joints or heads of any darkspawn that dared get within range of him.

The press of battle began to slacken, then tapered off, a last few darkspawn fleeing back toward the cave, most of them cut down by the archers on the bluff, only a handful escaping back into the darkness. The wardens grimly made their way around inside the stockade, finishing off any wounded darkspawn, gathering together again back at the gate when that distasteful but necessary task was done.

Loghain was standing with his helmet under one arm, shield leaning against one leg, looking tired. Bekka sat on the ground nearby, biting her lip and trying not to cry out as Jowan set a broken forearm, applying just enough healing power to encourage the break to heal cleanly before splinting it. Gabe crouched on his haunches beside her, looking tired and worried, his face only relaxing when Jowan said something to reassure the pair that she should heal without problems.

Captain Dorn walked up, looking almost as tired as Loghain did. "Three dead," he said grimly. "Half a dozen injured."

Loghain nodded. "Jowan, can you see to the injured soldiers?"

"Of course," Jowan said, fumbling in his belt pouch for a lyrium potion before heading off to where the soldiers were gathered.

"What next?" Dorn asked.

"We should make camp here, at least for now," Loghain said. "There's a headland overlooking a beach a few minutes walk to the southeast from here; we can camp there, and clean up in the ocean in shifts. We'll need to deal with this opening, either seal it as we did up north, or at least block it again. Though I think a patrol should go in first, and make sure that there aren't any significant numbers of darkspawn left in this section of the Deep Roads. We'll likely be here a few days."

Dorn nodded. "I'll send someone to fetch our horses then, and a messenger to locate the baggage train and see it gets here" he said, and looked around at the carpet of dead darkspawn. "And the bodies?"

"The wood from the stockade should be more than sufficient to burn them all. And to block that cave entrance off again, at least temporarily. If you'll have your men work on that, I'll have mine gather the corpses."

Captain Dorn nodded agreement, and went off to give the appropriate orders. After that it became the same sort of nasty business they'd had to deal with after rescuing Podge's patrol; gathering up the corpses and laying them out on stacks of wood prepared by the soldiers, trying not to think too much about the disgusting state of many of the bodies. As inhuman as they were, the darkspawn still had much the same bits inside of them and smelled much the same as dead dwarves or humans would have, and the work was never anything less than ugly.

"Wouldn't it be easier if we just dug a pit and buried them?" Lem asked as he and Alistair carried a hurlock over to add to the growing pile of wood and corpses.

"Might seem that way, but the corpses are tainted; any wild animal that dug down and ate the carrion would end up blighted. If you've ever seen a blight wolf or a bereskarn you know how nasty that can be. And wherever they were buried would become blighted soil; only fire completely destroys the taint," Alistair explained.

Lem made a face. "Had a bereskarn caught by one of my deadfall traps once, back in the blight year. I was damned glad it _was_ a deadfall; wouldn't have wanted to come across something like that still alive. That was up northwest of Ostagar, and a good part of why I moved so far east. Didn't want to stay around where stuff like that might be," he said, then looked over the pile of darkspawn corpses and grimaced before spitting off to one side. "Just my luck, eh?"

Alistair smiled. "Yeah. Funny how things work out sometimes."

A militia unit arrived from Gwaren just as they were piling the last of the body pieces – the ogre, hacked into movable-sized bits by Oghren and Podge – onto the piles of wood. Loghain smiled slightly, calling out a greeting to the man leading the group, clearly someone he knew – as, doubtless, he'd know almost everyone they met around Gwaren, Alistair realized – and went over to talk to the man. That ended with the militia taking up position to oversee the burning while most of the wardens and the army moved to the southeast, to the headland overlooking the beach Loghain had spoken of. Nathaniel's group remained behind to provide warning if any darkspawn returned, while a few soldiers doused the wood piles with oil and started the pyres burning, and a second, larger group of them worked on blocking off the cave mouth.

The baggage train caught up with them just before they reached the headland, along with their horses. The wardens and any of the soldiers who'd gotten blood on themselves while fighting descended a steep path down to the beach, to wash off in the cold saltwater, while the rest began work on setting up a proper camp on the headland. The beach was soon dotted with piles of discarded armour, the water filled with people washing and wading and complaining about hoe cold the ocean water was, a few braver souls heading out to deeper water and swimming.

Alistair hissed as he saw the dark bruises striping his ribs where the ogre's grasp had forced the edges of his armour painfully into his skin. He was going to turn all sorts of ugly colours before those healed, he was sure. Though at least it was nothing worse than bruises; his ribs ached, but not in the way of something broken. Nor was he the only person to display such marks; not a warden had escaped without bruises, scrapes, or cuts, though thankfully Bekka's broken arm was the worst of their collective injuries, and something that would heal cleanly, especially with two mages around to heal it further if needed.

The cold saltwater felt good on his skin, especially on the bruises, though he wasn't looking forward to when it dried later. He hoped there was somewhere around where they'd be able to get fresh water to rinse off with. There must be, he decided, or else Loghain wouldn't have chosen this spot for them to set up camp; the horses would be needing fresh water too, among other things. Thinking of the man made him wonder where he was, and glance around for him.

It took him a while to spot him; Loghain turned out to be one of the swimmers, cutting through the waves some distance off shore as he swam along parallel to the beach, with surprising energy for a man his age. Alistair himself stuck to the shallows, not going in any further than waist-deep, and was startled when Oghren swam past him, kicking and paddling enthusiastically and headed for deeper water. Most of the wardens were swimming, he saw, with varying degrees of proficiency. It made him feel horribly self-conscious about only being in waist-deep. He ducked under and scrubbed at his hair and what he could reach on his back and shoulders, then paddled awkwardly around for a few minutes, occasionally reaching down with a foot to make sure he could still touch bottom and almost panicking the one time it wasn't there. He quickly paddled back in toward shore, and stayed crouching in the shallows.

Oghren came splashing by again, with much more enthusiasm than technique, and paused, dog-paddling to stay in place. "Hey. Not going in any deeper?"

Alistair shook his head, blushing a little in embarrassment. "Not unless I have to. I don't really swim well."

"Didn't you grow up in Redcliffe? How'd you live on something like Lake Calenhad and never learn to swim?" Oghren asked, sounding surprised. "Ancestors, _I've_ learned how to swim and the only lake anywhere near Orzammar is full of lava."

Loghain spoke up from nearby, having swum closer without Alistair having noticed. "Doubtless because it _was_ Lake Calenhad that Alistair grew up beside. The waters there are not exactly considered safe for swimming."

"Full of big nasty things with sharp teeth," Alistair agreed. "I know just enough swimming to stay alive if I fall in, and even that I didn't learn in the lake itself. Only fools, the ignorant and the desperate swim in that lake."

"Really?" Oghren said, sounding surprises, then frowned suspiciously. "This isn't some kind of fancy story like the schleets, is it?"

Alistair frowned, puzzled. "Schleets?"

Loghain laughed. "No, it's not like schleets. There's simply more things in Lake Calenhad than just fish, and many of them nasty enough to make a deep-stalker seem cuddly in comparison."

Alistair nodded agreement to that.

"Well, we should head back to camp; they should have our tents up by now," Loghain pointed out, and frowned at Oghren. "You and your group are overdue for a rest as it is."

Oghren readily agreed with that, and bellowed for his group to head back to shore.


	32. Gwaren Homecoming

As they waded back, Loghain gave Alistair a sideways look. "Remind me to make sure that proper swimming in on the list of skills you learn this summer. As the other Grey Wardens and I have found, there's places in the Deep Roads where it's turned out to be a necessary skill."

"Swimming? In the _Deep Roads!?_ " Alistair exclaimed, giving him a startled look.

"Unfortunately yes. The dwarven construction has stood up remarkably well for how many centuries it's been abandoned to the darkspawn, but there are still places that have flooded, not to mention the presence of underground rivers and lakes in the natural caverns. In fact one of the places that's at least partially underwater is just down from that cave. The fact that darkspawn made it out that way tells me it likely hasn't flooded any worse than it was thirty-odd years ago. Most darkspawn don't swim well at all; they generally sink instead."

"Well, that is good news," Alistair said, and made a face.

Loghain grinned briefly. "It is, if there's some place you can swim to and the darkspawn can't. A pity the concept of wet moats never really caught on in Ferelden; most of our keeps and castles are on rises with commanding views instead. And even if you do have a water barrier, there's always the problem of the bridge being a possible point of weakness anyway, as Redcliffe proved during the Blight year."

"Really? I hadn't heard about that. What happened?"

"That's right, you'd left the country by then, hadn't you," Loghain said, and frowned as they walked up the beach. "We arrived at Redcliffe for the gathering of the armies only to find the place had been invaded by a small force of darkspawn earlier that same day. There'd been enough warning for most of the villagers to get to safety, though sadly not all made it. And the darkspawn had crossed the bridge before anyone could be found who remembered how to collapse the centre span of it, it not being something that Eamon had bothered making sure his guards knew how to do, foolishly enough."

Alistair bit his lip, hearing in the tone of Loghain's voice just how little good opinion Loghain had of Eamon's intelligence. He checked over his armour, wiping off some patches of dried blood still adhering to the sun-heated metal, and pulled on the padded leggings so he'd at least feel more dressed than a pair of wet smalls made him. Though by the look of it, the leggings were going to need a thorough washing, having caught at least a few splashes of darkspawn blood.

"Arl Eamon, despite having the better part of an entire army holed up there at Redcliffe, had made no effort to kill the darkspawn, so our party ended up clearing the darkspawn out of the village and the castle courtyard. And then when we went indoors, we found the Arl and the others just standing around in full armour, apparently still debating over who was in charge and should go do something about the darkspawn or some such foolishness. Solona was livid, though she didn't really show it," Loghain explained, as he pulled on his own leggings, have given his own armour much the same examination and minimal start at cleaning as Alistair had. "She just smiled a lot, but you could see the anger in and around her eyes, if you knew what to look for."

Alistair nodded. He knew exactly the face Loghain meant; he'd seen Solona make it so many times during their adventures, holding back anger and forcing herself to smile, be diplomatic and charming... He'd expected it to be the expression he saw when he looked at her that last time, before turning and leaving the Landsmeet chamber, and her. But it hadn't been; her face had been blank instead, smooth and emotionless, and then she'd turned away, without ever meeting his eyes.

He felt a strange tightness in his chest, and lost track of what Loghain was saying, just standing there with his armour in his hands. He felt strangely _aware_ of everything around him; the heat of the sunlight on his shoulders, the prickle of salt on his skin as the water dried, the sounds of the surf, the cry of a passing seagull, the faint scent of sun-heated oiled metal rising from the piece of armour in his hands. He swallowed thickly, and bent down, scooping up the rest of his gear, and silently followed Loghain across the beach, and up the path to where the soldiers had the camp mostly up already.

It was only when they reached their tent, close to Captain Dorn's as it always was, that he realized Loghain had stopped talking at some point, and looked up to find the man frowning thoughtfully at him. He expected a reprimand for his inattentiveness.

"Find me some clothes, then clean your armour and mine," Loghain said, voice unexpectedly gentle. "Then check on our horses. I need to go talk with Captain Dorn. We'll be going into Gwaren later, you and I, though likely not until tomorrow."

Alistair nodded, and put down his armour, then went in search of clean clothes and cloths and armour polish.

* * *

Loghain glanced sideways at Alistair. The boy had been uncharacteristically quiet since the day before; inattentive as well, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts clearly elsewhere. When given an order he carried it out, quietly and mechanically. He'd have worried, if he hadn't seen Maric in similar moods in the past; working through the aftermath of some decision he'd disliked taking, or dealing with some particularly haunting memory after events had raised it.

He guessed it might have been his own talk about either Arl Eamon or Solona that had done it. And more likely the girl, he doubting that Alistair had any particularly haunting memories of _Eamon_. So he gave him some space, and left him to work it out on his own.

It was a nice morning for a ride along the coast; cool, but sunny, with an offshore breeze. He found himself thinking wistfully of times long-gone, when he was young and newly married, and he and Celia would often go for rides or walks together along the coast, picnicking in some secluded cove before returning to Gwaren and their duty of Teyrn and Teyrna. She'd never really taken her title very seriously; it was all too unreal to her, born and raised a mere cabinet-maker's daughter and happier with a carving tool or gardening implement in hand than doing needlework or whatever else it was that noblewomen were supposed to spend their time doing. Not that it had always seemed entirely real to him either, at least at first, but all the duties and responsibilities associated with the position had quickly dispelled any doubt he might have felt over whether or not he was really the Teyrn of Gwaren.

Celia had been well-loved by their people; the townsfolk had considered their marriage to be a great romance, like something out of a fairy tale. And at times it had almost seemed that way to him as well, especially coming home tired from labouring with words or hands or both at once to rebuild the city, much of it destroyed during the rebellion, and finding her hard at work turning the old manor into a comfortable home for the two of them. He'd find her busily canning fruit in the kitchen with the cook and his scullions, out working in the gardens she so loved, or sneaking off to the workshop he'd built for her when she could find time to work on the projects dearest to her own heart. They'd been good years; happy years, for her, and he supposed for himself as well.

Until word came that Rowan was dying. And he raced off, leaving wife, young daughter, and teyrnir behind in his race to Denerim, and then arriving far too late anyway, of course. Truthfully it had been too late for years at that point. And yet it was one of the great regrets of his life; that he'd never had a chance to tell Rowan good-bye. That he still, after all those years, loved her, and yet had never told her so.

It seemed one of the great patterns of his life; that those he loved most, he lost, without ever having a chance to tell them good-bye, or how much they meant to him. Mother, father, Rowan, then Celia, falling prey to some sudden sickness of her own just a few years later, while he was occupied in Denerim, with another fruitless race to be there and another failure at the end of it. Maric, lost at sea, no body ever found. Cailan, lost at Ostagar. Though at least Solona had let him know that Cailan's body had been recovered and properly burnt, small comfort that such news was.

Such thoughts had him as distracted and sombre as Alistair by the time the city came in sight. He felt a familiar lift of his heart at seeing its so-familiar walls and roofs, the breakwater protecting the long piers where the fishing boats and trading ships docked, the clock tower on the old merchant's hall and the even higher peak of the chantry. And perched atop a cliff overlooking the town, the old manor, as much a proper keep now as close to thirty years of work could make it, surrounded by the high walls he'd insisted on building, and which Celia had insisted must be more than just utilitarian structures, pleasant to look upon as well as serving a proper defensive purpose, if he was going to, as she put it, spoil her view. Foolishness, he'd called it, and she'd just smiled and laughed, and talked him into doing it anyway, to please her.

Maker, but he missed her still. She'd had the gift of being able to make him smile. He regretted... so much. But never would he regret choosing to marry her, no matter what others had said about her unsuitability. He'd never wanted to be a noble; he'd chosen to marry for comfort, not advantage.

He brought his thoughts back to the present as they neared the city gate, where he exchanged greetings with the pair of guards on duty, before leading his small group into Gwaren. He'd brought the new recruits along; Wilf wanted to see his family, and the hunters all had belongings they wished to retrieve. He was momentarily thankful that they _were_ hunters, and that there weren't encumbrances like a house to worry about.

The hunters went their own way once they'd entered the city, Lem heading off in one direction and Gabe and Bekka in another, all to meet up later at the manor where they'd be staying, guests of his daughter. A courtesy he hadn't taken advantage of before, this being the first time he'd returned to Gwaren since being made a Grey Warden and stripped of all titles. It felt very strange to ride through the streets, to greet and be greeted by people he'd known and ruled for so many years, and to know that all this was no longer his. Not his lands, not his people, and no longer his to worry about apart from within the context of whatever threat to them any lingering darkspawn might represent.

And yet... he felt a certain degree of _relief_ at that realization. He still cared greatly for the people here, some of them even on a personal level, not merely as the man who'd once been their Teyrn, but their problems were no longer things that he had to worry about and solve. That was now Anora's headache to deal with, and would continue to be until such time as she passed the title on to someone else, either by choice or once she eventually died herself. Or some other misfortune came to pass, such as another Orlesian invasion. Or even a qunari invasion; Chasind legends spoke of a village of giants that had existed in the wilds at some point hundreds of years ago; where qunari had once been, they might yet some day return. But none of that was his concern any more, other than in the abstract.

He and Alistair accompanied Wilf to the mill, a large structure on the north side of town, built near the base of a bluff where a small stream tumbled down to feed a large pond, the overflow of which drove the water-wheel and thereby turned the gears inside the mill. There wasn't a great deal of grain grown around here, not like up north in the bannorn, but what was grown here, and most of what was imported, were processed for further use here, whole grains being easier to ship and capable of being stored for longer before they began to go stale, at least assuming they were properly protected from things like damp and heat.

The mill was grinding today; corn, by the smell of it. Wilf's sister Aretha – Reet, to anyone she liked enough to allow the use of her nickname – was sitting on a stool by the bagging chute, watching as fine golden cornmeal poured out into a tight-woven canvas sack. A muscular young man was pouring whole dried kernels of corn into the chute that led to the grinding wheels. Aretha glanced up as they entered, then smiled happily as she spotted Wilf.

"Tim! Shut 'er down!" she called out loudly, to be heard over the rumbling of all the gears. Timothy looked up, saw the three of them, and put down his sack, then went over and yanked on a lever, disengaging the drive wheel from the rest of the structure. The giant gears groaned to a halt. As soon as things stopped moving, Reet leapt to her feet and hurried over to give Wilf a hug, little slowed by her bulging belly.

"You're looking well," she told Wilf, smiling happily, then turned to Loghain and Alistair. "Teyr... Arl Loghain, it's good to see you again. I hope Wilf hasn't been being any trouble to you?"

Loghain smiled, hearing the anxious note in her voice. "Quite the opposite. He's proving to be very useful as a Grey Warden. While I'm sorry that he had no choice about becoming one, I'm quite pleased to have him and that mallet of his in our ranks."

Reet smiled, looking happy and relieved. "That's good," she said, her hand tightening in a brief, approving squeeze on Wilf's arm. "That's very good."

Loghain nodded. "I thought I should come and talk to you and your father, and answer any questions the pair of you might have about what Wilf will be doing now. And of course Wilf wanted to see you both, and pick up his belongings."

"Of course," she agreed. "Why don't we all go next door, and I'll make us some tea."

Loghain smiled. "Thank you, that would be pleasant," he agreed.

Next door was the miller's house, far enough from the mill that the gears would just be a background noise when the mill was running, not the rumbling din it was in the mill itself. Old Wilmot had noticed the silence when the mill stopped running, of course, and come out on the porch, leaning heavily on the cane that he'd needed ever since he'd slipped and had his foot crushed between two gears some years ago. He looked pleased when he spotted Wilf, a grin lighting his face, and then startled and more than a little nervous when he noticed Loghain among those accompanying his son.

Reet took charge and soon had them all indoors and seated on benches and stools and an upturned barrel around the kitchen table, while she made tea, and Wilf proudly told his father about everything he'd been up to since he'd become a warden, including a reasonably accurate description of the fight the day before, and how he'd hit the ogre with his mallet "just like re-seating the third gear when it starts to creep". They'd all had several cups of tea and a large quantity of cookies by the time he finished.

"It sounds like you're doing well in the wardens, then," Wilmot said.

"He is," Loghain assured the old man.

Wilmot nodded, then frowned slightly, and darted a look at Wilf. "Wilf, why don't you go gather up your things while I talk some more with your commander."

Wilf nodded and rose to his feet, Reet rising as well. "I'll help him," she said. "And then I'd best get back out to the mill. Corn won't grind itself and Mistress Peggety will be by wanting to pick that up later today."

As soon as the two were out of the room, Wilmot gave Loghain a very sharp look. "Is he really all right in the wardens? He's a good boy, but you and I both know he's not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer."

Loghain smiled. "He's fine in the wardens; I'd even go so far as to say that he'll likely do very well among us. He's already making friends, he follows orders well, and he keeps his head in a fight. We're far more concerned about whether or not someone can hold up in a fight against darkspawn than how intelligent they are, and Wilf is very good; he was no more frightened of that ogre than he is of the millworks, just kept his distance, stayed calm, and used his mallet where and when it would do the most good. Or harm, as the case might be."

"He's deadly with that mallet," Alistair spoke up. "He fought beside me for a while yesterday and I didn't have any worries about how well he could handle the darkspawn. That ogre was trying to squeeze me in half when he hit it; he may well have saved my life. "

That made Wilmot beam, pleased to hear his son praised.

Loghain frowned, and leaned forward. "Now, you and I both know that fighting darkspawn isn't exactly the safest of occupations, though all jobs have their hazards," he pointed out.

"Aye, I know that well," Wilmot said, tapping the knee of his damaged leg. "I know he might be killed. I could wish he'd not sickened, and been able to stay on here at the mill; Reet and her Tim would have seen to it he was looked after proper, even once I'm gone. Though it was a good thing he did, trying to save those youngsters, and I'm proud of him for that."

Loghain nodded. "I can't promise you that he'll have a long life; any of us could die tomorrow, and being a Grey Warden is far from a safe occupation. But the Grey Wardens look after their own, and I _can_ promise you that for as long as he lives, Wilf will never have to worry about having a roof over his head, food on the table, and pocket money to spend. He's proud to be one of us; he understands that it means he's doing something useful, that protects people from things like what happened here."

Wilmot nodded slowly. "He looks happy enough, I'll agree. And as long as he's looked after, I suppose I'm happy for him. I guess he'll be going off up north now, to where that keep you have is?"

"Vigil's Keep, yes, though he might not remain there. We're talking of starting a second establishment down here in the south, so we can cover the country better, if we can get enough wardens to man it. But for now, yes, he'll be going north. We've people who can read a letter to him, or help him write one, so that he can stay in touch, and he'll have time off every now and then, if he wants to come visit."

Wilmot smiled. "He may be slow, but he has his letters. The wife taught him and Reet, before she died. She kept the books for me, since I never knew more than making my mark and keeping tallies."

"Then I'll be sure he knows that it's all right for him to write to you and Reet, and has writing supplies. And I'll write to you and Reet myself, if you'd like, and let you know how he's doing," Loghain offered.

Wilmot nodded. "I'd appreciate that. I'm sure there's things he wouldn't think to tell us that we might like to know."

Wilf and Reet came back in, Wilf carrying a wicker chest in his arms, the lid tied on with rope, and a full pack on his back. He said his farewells to his father and Reet, and promised to write, and to come visit and see the baby once it had been born, and then they set off together to the manor.

"You'll have to sort through your things before we head out again," Loghain told Wilf. "We can send most of your things to Vigil's Keep with the next messenger I send north; you'll just need a few clothes. And while we're here in town I suppose I should see about purchasing some armour for you and the other three to wear; something good enough to use until we're back at Vigil's Keep and can get you outfitted in proper Grey Warden armour."

Wilf looked worriedly at the two of them "I won't have to wear heavy stuff like what you're wearing, will I?" he asked anxiously. "I don't know that I could swing my mallet well in that."

Loghain smiled reassuringly at Wilf. "Not unless you'd like to; you'll find it's not as confining as it looks. But I think you'd be best off sticking to lighter armour than this anyway. More like what Nathaniel and Brann are wearing; something you can move quickly and easily in."

Wilf nodded, looking happier. "That sounds good," he said.

As they turned onto the road leading up to the manor house they spotted someone not far ahead of them; Lem, trudging along with a pack on his back almost as big as he was, a waist strap and a forehead band making it easier to carry.

Loghain hailed him, and the hunter turned around, smiling when he saw them. "That's quite the load," Loghain observed as they caught up with him.

Lem nodded. "Gave away most of my gear to a friend, since I won't be needing it any more. This is just my clothes and things. A few keepsakes I've managed to hold on to over the years, like a quilt my mother made."

Loghain told him the same thing he'd told Wilf, about sending some of it north.

Lem smiled. "That's just fine with me. I'll get it all sorted this evening."

The manor looked much the same as it had the last time Loghain had seen it, a pleasant structure built of large blocks of the pale cream-coloured limestone so common around here, with a roof of blue slate tile, and a forecourt paved with slate flagstones. Flowering vines climbed the pillars to either side of the front entrance, cuttings from the vines that had bracketed the door of the house Celia had been born and raised in. He was pleased to see them in bloom; it had been years since he'd last been in Gwaren at the right time of year for that. Their scent brought back memories, of when he'd first met and began courting Celia. Not that he'd realized at first that that was what he was doing; it was only when her father had asked him one day if he was at all serious about her that he realized why he'd been seeking out her company so often.

The door opened as they crossed the courtyard, the seneschal – once his man, and now Anora's – stepping out to greet their arrival.

"Arl Loghain," he said, bowing deeply. "Queen Anora sent word that you and some of your wardens might be guesting with us for a while. Is this them?"

"Seneschal Liam," Loghain said, nodding in acknowledgement. "These are three of them; I'm sure you already know Wilf. This is Lem, and this is my squire, Alistair. There are two more coming – a married couple, Gabe and Bekka."

Liam nodded. "I will see rooms are supplied for all. I assume you'll want your squire in with you?" And at Loghain's nod, "Good. I'll see that a bed is set up in the foyer of your rooms for him."

Loghain blinked. "Foyer? I need no more than one of the regular guest rooms..."

Liam smiled. "Anora insists. She gave very specific instructions as to which rooms were to be put aside for your use if you ever visited, and how they were to be decorated. She'd have my hide if I put you anywhere else."

Loghain blinked again. "Which rooms am I in, then?" he asked cautiously.

"The garden rooms, she's decided to call them; what was Teyrn Celia's sitting room."

That made him draw a long, deep breath. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I know the way, if you would like to show Lem and Wilf where they'll be staying while we're here?"

Liam agreed, and led the way into the house, taking Lem and Wilf off upstairs to where the regular guest rooms where, while Loghain walked through the manor to the back, nodding in greeting to a couple of servants he passed, too stunned to speak. Celia's sitting room... it had always been a quiet room, Celia not given much to entertaining. If she wanted to see her friends, she would change into simpler clothing and walk down the hill, and spend an hour or an afternoon with them, much as she had before she'd married him and become Teyrna. But he and she had sometimes spent a quiet afternoon in there together, Celia drawing up ideas for whatever project she was currently working on, Loghain reading, or answering correspondence, or the two of them talking together. It had a row of large windows overlooking her flower gardens, and to one side was a short hallway leading to a withdrawing room, a small bathing chamber, and a door to the terrace outside the windows. Those and the small foyer separating the sitting room from the main hallway made him suspect that the room had originally been a small ballroom, before a previous Teyrn had expanded the house and added a larger one.

He supposed it had made sense to turn the trio of rooms into a guest suite. With no one in regular residence here, the sitting room would have sat empty and unused; as guest rooms, it might at least see use on the rare occasions when Anora visited Gwaren and brought a train of guests of any real size with her.

The foyer looked much as it always had; mostly empty, except for a cabinet against one wall and a chair against the other. There was certainly more than enough room to fit in a bed and whatever else was necessary for Alistair. The sitting room itself... he stopped, sucking in a deep breath and then holding it, eyes widening as he looked around.

The walls had been recently repainted, though still in the same pale yellow Celia had chosen so many years ago, the drapes framing the windows the same mossy green, though they were clearly of newer cloth, replacing the old sun-faded drapes. Celia's desk and desk chair were gone, but the chairs they'd sat in when not working were still there, moved from pride of place by the windows to over near the fireplace. There was a small table with four chairs by the windows, rather rustic in style but with beautifully carved details, the seat cushions worked by hand in a pattern of green leaves and small white flowers; all Celia's work, that she'd made to occupy the private dining room in their quarters upstairs. Against one wall were the desk, chair, and bookcase that had once occupied his private study, also Celia's work. Odds and ends of things that had been precious to either himself or Celia were scattered around the room; the bow he'd used during the rebellion rested on pegs set in the wall above his desk, a wood carving made by Celia's father hung over the fireplace, a collection of sea-polished stones and seashells that Celia had gathered during their walks were spread out decoratively along the mantle.

Seeing all of that made him less surprised when he walked into what had been the withdrawing room and was now a neatly laid out bedroom, furnished with the bed he and Celia had shared, and the clothes-press and chest and bedside tables that went with it; a wedding gift from Celia's father, carved by his own father and used by Celia's grandparents all of their lives. He remembered how she'd teared up when she'd first seen the dark wood furniture in its place in their room, and found himself having to pause and swallow once or twice before entering the room.

The quilt on the bed was one worked by her mother; the rag-rug beside it one Celia and Anora had made together; the wrought candlesticks on the bedside tables had been made by a cousin of Celia's, a blacksmith. Everywhere he looked was something else he recognized; something else he remembered. Reminders of his years here, and especially of his years with Celia. He was touched that Anora had had these rooms so obviously decorated just for his use; he couldn't imagine her putting any casual guest in this setting, with these particular items of furniture and treasured keepsakes.

A sound startled him, and made him turn; Alistair, opening the clothes-press to put away Loghain's belongings.

He left Alistair to it, and went to sit in Celia's garden, wanting some privacy while he dealt with the thoughts and emotions that returning here had raised.


	33. Making Plans

Alistair walked out to the terrace, and spotted Loghain right away; he was sitting with one hip perched on the balustrade, twisted sideways to look out over the gardens. They were beautiful, Alistair thought, even as he cleared his throat to attract the commander's attention.

"Yes?" Loghain said, without turning to look and see who it was.

"The Seneschal sent word that he assumed you would want to dine with your wardens, and has arranged a dinner in the small dining room accordingly. Or if you would rather dine alone, he can change arrangements."

"No, that's fine. I suppose I should bathe and change."

"I've put out clothes for you, and started the bath filling."

That made Loghain turn and look at him, one eyebrow raising slightly, then he gave a small nod of his head. "You're thinking ahead. Good," he said approvingly, then rose and walked indoors.

Alistair flushed slightly, but once again found himself feeling pleased about having won the man's approval. It was not an easy thing to earn, he'd noticed. He walked over to the balustrade and stood looking out over the gardens for a while, admiring how lovely they were, before returning back indoors himself, and busying himself putting away his own belongings in the small clothes-press that had appeared in the foyer along with the delivery of a bed and bedding.

He had just finished and was laying out clothing of his own to change into when Loghain appeared in the door to the sitting room, hair still damp and loose, but changed into his own clothing, a simple tunic of dark blue cloth over black leggings, the griffon of the wardens picked out in silver thread on the breast, and soft indoor shoes of black suede. "Make use of the bathing chamber yourself, if you'd like, there should be enough time," he said.

"Thank you, I will," Alistair agreed, and quickly gathered up clothing and toiletries to go do just that.

The small dining room proved to be large enough to hold at least a dozen people. The other four wardens were already there and seated when the two of them arrived, and rose to their feet as they entered. Loghain smiled. "Lem, Wilf, Gabe, Bekka..." And paused, staring for a moment at the young boy between the pair of them; about eleven or twelve years of age, with his mother's dark hair and his father's freckles. "Ah. And this is your younger son, isn't it? The one who went for help?"

"Yes, ser," the boy himself answered, and flushed red. "And got lost."

Loghain's brows rose slightly. "And got yourself unlost, all on your own, from what I heard."

"Yeah, but maybe if I hadn't gotten lost..." He stopped, trailing off, his flush darkening. Clearly he blamed himself for his older brother's death.

Loghain glanced at the boy's parents, then turned his attention back to him. "I'm going to tell you something that's hard to hear, but it's the truth. Even if you hadn't gotten lost, your brother would most likely already have been dead before any help could reach him. Darkspawn don't keep people as prisoners; or at least, not for long. Also, you know that your parents and the others all became very sick from having been around darkspawn? The same would have happened to him, so even if by some miracle we'd found him still alive and unharmed, he _still_ might not have lived. You did your best, and sometimes that's _all_ we can do."

The boy's chin set stubbornly, as if he didn't want to believe what Loghain had said, but he also looked at least a little thoughtful; he was at least considering what Loghain had told him.

"Now... what's your name?" Loghain asked him.

"Sean... ser."

"Well, Sean. Why don't we all sit down, so the servants can bring out our dinner. And then we're going to have to figure out what to do with you. Being a warden is not like being a hunter; you won't be able to stay with your parents when they're out on patrol," he said, as he moved to take his own seat, everyone else following suit.

"Maybe we should ship him off back to Vigil's Keep with the rest of our extra belongings," Lem said as he took his own seat, grinning, and earning a dirty look from the boy, an amused look from his father, and a pained one from his mother.

Loghain's lips twitched. "That's actually not all that far off of what I'm thinking might be the most suitable solution," he said to Alistair's surprise, then looked at the boy's parent's. "Bekka, with that broken arm you're best off not adventuring for a while; our healers tend to prefer to allow bone to heal naturally, whenever there's the time for it; they tell me it makes for a sounder limb than if it's healed magically. I need to send messages north anyway, to both Denerim and Vigil's Keep, along with all the belongings of you four. I think it makes sense to send you two and Sean north as messengers. You'll have time to heal, and to get settled in to your choice of an indoor suite or a separate cottage in the bailey, whichever you think would suit you better. By the time you're needed out on patrol, we'll have been able to work out who can keep an eye on Sean while you're away. Or do you have family somewhere you'd rather send him to?"

Bekka and Gabe exchanged a look. It was Bekka that answered for the pair of them. "We'd prefer to keep him with us. Thank you."

Loghain nodded. "You didn't have much choice about becoming wardens, I know, but we try to give you as much choice as we can in other matters. I'll see that arrangements are made for your trip north then; likely you'll go by ship from here to Denerim, and then you and all our assorted goods by waggon from there. When you leave will depend on when there's next a ship departing northwards from here; there's usually at least one a week, during prime shipping weather, so it's unlikely that you'll have too long a wait. You'll stay here until it's time for you to depart."

The pair nodded. "I've never been to sea before," Gabe said, sounding a little dubious at the prospect.

"I have," Bekka said, and made a face. "It's not too bad, at least once you get past the first day or two of it."

"What about Wilf and me? What'll we be doing?" Lem asked.

"I think I'll be keeping the pair of you with Alistair and I for now; Nathaniel and Oghren's groups will be staying here, to oversee sealing off that cave again, and then searching up north to be sure that our blasting didn't leave any new openings. The army will be staying here as well, to help with both. Alistair and I have an additional trip to make while we're here in the south, heading west into the wilds; I was thinking it would be best if there was more than just the two of us, so since Gabe and Bekka are heading north, that makes you two the obvious choice to accompany us."

"The Wilds, eh? I've been there before," Lem said. "Though mostly I did my hunting and trapping more to the northwest; the Chasind don't much care for non-Chasind wandering around in what they consider their lands."

"Neither would I, if I was Chasind," Loghain observed, then cut into the herb-crusted squab on his plate. "But we're unlikely to encounter many on this trip; they avoid the blighted lands."

"The blighted..." Lem broke off, looking disconcerted, then smiled crookedly. "I would too, if I was them."

Loghain smiled, looking amused at Lem's paraphrase. "At least as wardens we have little to fear there. The blight cannot harm us."

"So what _are_ we going there about?" Lem asked, leaning his forearms on the table as he looked questioningly at Loghain.

"Ostagar. We need to establish a warden outpost in the south, and it's been suggested by several people that the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar would be a suitable location. It's fairly central to the southlands, a good defensible location, and is still in reparable condition as far as we know. It's also well situated for keeping an eye on the blighted lands, and hopefully doing something to seal off any openings to the Deep Roads that remain from when the darkspawn emerged. But before I come to any decision, I want to go and take a look at the tower for myself."

"That sounds sensible," Lem agreed, and turned his attention back to his meal, stabbing a forkful of green beans.

"I'm glad you approve," Loghain said dryly. "It will be at least a few days until we leave, most likely. I'll need to sort out things here before I can go elsewhere. Unless something else comes up at the cave or up north that needs my attention we'll be staying here at the manor until it's time to depart."

Lem nodded. Wilf looked up, frowning and chewing on his lip. "Can I visit Reet more while we're here?"

"Yes, you'll have free time every day to do things you want to. Which leads me to the subject of training; as wardens, you're all expected to keep yourself well-trained in your preferred weapon, and hopefully learn additional skills, as time permits. Alistair and I will be practising every morning before breakfast; I'd like to see all of you doing the same, though Bekka is currently excused from practise while her arm heals. Though if you would like to practise one-handed fighting, I certainly would encourage it; knowing how to fight well with a secondary weapon when you're injured and unable to use your primary one could save your life some day."

Bekka nodded. "I'm handy with a knife; mostly with this hand though," she said, tapping one finger to the splinted arm. "You're right though, learning how to fight with offhand as well wouldn't hurt any. I'll do it," she said stoutly, earning a slight smile and approving nod from Loghain.

"Good," he said, then looked at the others. "Do any of the rest of you have a second weapon you're also good with?"

Gabe shook his head. "Only knife work I ever do is skinning animals. Bow is all I know."

"I tried a sword for a bit when I was younger; thought of being a mercenary, you know what young boys are like," Lem said, then grinned.. "Wasn't any good at it. Told to stick to a bow, less chance of slicing my own fingers off."

"Don't know anything but my hammer," Wilf said.

Loghain nodded. "Well, we'll see if there's something else you can pick up later, perhaps," he said. "For now just staying in practise with your current weapon is enough. I'll expect to see all of you practising tomorrow morning, for at least an hour; beyond that the day is yours to do with as you wish, though I'd ask that if you leave the manor grounds, you leave word as to where you've gone. If something comes up and I need you quickly, I want to be able to find you."

They all murmured assent. Loghain nodded. "Good. I'd prefer we eat a meal as a group at least once a day; I'm going to say breakfasts since we should all be on hand at that time of day. You may chose whether or not to eat here or elsewhere for other meals, and whether to eat in your own rooms or here. Wilf, Lem, I'll want you to accompany Alistair and I into the city tomorrow after breakfast, so we can look into getting armour of some kind for you two. Gabe and Bekka, you should have no need for any until after you're up north anyway, and our armourer there can kit you out with our official armour."

Everyone nodded again.

"Good," he said, and then smiled. "And now I suppose we should see what they're giving us for dessert."


	34. Sacrifices

It was almost a full week later before they were finally able to get away from Gwaren. Armour for Lem hadn't been too hard to find, but given Wilf's size, his set had needed to be made from scratch, which had taken several days. Loghain had needed to have meetings with Captain Dorn, with Nathaniel and Oghren, with the Captain of the Gwaren militia, with Anora's seneschal, in order to arrange everything that needed doing to properly search and re-seal the southern caves, and arrange a search of the northern hills to be sure there were no more openings to worry about. Gabe and Bekka had left for the north on the morning tide of the fourth day, taking Sean, a bundle of letters, and a large pile of luggage with them.

It had taken time to locate horses for Lem and Wilf, and Loghain had sworn a little over the price he'd had to pay for them; Lem's elderly gelding hadn't been too bad, but Wilf's size had again proven a tripping block, necessitating the purchase of a draft horse from a nearby lumbering camp. The mare was even larger than Loghain's stallion, and more used to dragging logs than being ridden, but had a very placid disposition and soon settled down to her new job as Wilf's mount. Thankfully a big enough saddle had been found without too much difficulty, though Lem and Alistair had needed to teach Wilf enough about how to ride that he could do so with at least basic skill.

Loghain was in a cheerful mood the morning they were finally ready and able to set out. "Eat well," he told the group of them at breakfast. "I'd like to make as good time as we can today, so we'll be eating a cold lunch, and not stopping for anything other than resting the horses until evening."

They nodded, and did so, each of them eating a prodigious amount for breakfast. Not that it was going to be any real hardship to not stop for lunch, at least not today; the kitchen was providing them with packed lunches to take with them, so they'd at least have something nicer than trail rations to eat.

The Seneschal was among those who gathered in the courtyard to see them off, the small group also including Wilf's sister and father, a couple of female friends of Lem's, and a handful of people who'd shown up for no discernible reason other than that something interesting was going on. Loghain talked to the Seneschal for a little while, while the others checked to make sure that girths were tight enough and all their gear with them. Finally he nodded, and walked over the the stallion, checking his own girth as well before mounting. The other three quickly mounted as well, and with just a last few words of farewell called out, they departed.

Lem had more experience with mules than Alistair did, so it was he that now had control of their small string of pack mules, loaded down with their gear and supplies as well as a supply of food for the horses and mules to supplement whatever the animals were able to graze for themselves. That put him at the back of their group, with Wilf just ahead of him, then Alistair with Crunch, and Loghain at the front.

It was a lovely morning, the early morning sun gilding the buildings and stretching their shadows out at an angle ahead of them as they rode southwest toward the western gates of the city. They would be following the coastal road – more a trail, really – for the first part of their trip, to a small fishing village along the coast, where the ridge of the Southron Hills plunged down into the ocean, showing only as a few offshore islands and shallows before disappearing entirely. The road didn't continue beyond that, but there were hunting trails and the like leading through the hills, and Loghain felt it was easier to go through to the Korcari Wilds here in the south rather than further to the northwest. The hills were much steeper and taller the further northwest you went, only just missing being considered mountains because of the peaks of the Hinterlands to the north and the even taller Frostbacks far to the west. Once in the Korcari Wilds they'd then follow the western edge of the hills to the north, until they could strike westwards to the vicinity of Ostagar. That would hopefully keep them out of the muck and mire of the wilds, as well as mostly skirting the edges of Chasind territory rather than passing through the heart of it.

Alistair was glad to be on the move again, but not looking forward to visiting Ostagar a third time. He had so many memories, both good and bad, of being there. And more bad than good. It was where he'd first met Solona; it was where every other Grey Warden he'd known, his brothers, had died. And Cailan, his real brother whom he'd never had any real chance to know. But today was a beautiful sunny day, and he forced himself to not think of the end of their journey, but instead enjoy now, the setting out on it.

The streets were not very busy at the moment, and most of what few people were out and about smiled and called out good wishes to the Grey Wardens as they passed, a few addressing words specifically to either Loghain or Wilf. One young woman called out a greeting to Lem that made Alistair blush, and the woman's companion – also female – shrieked with laughter before dragging the first one away by the sleeve.

The lone exception to the good wishes happened as they neared the gate; a cloaked man rounded a corner ahead of them, and came to an abrupt stop on catching sight of them coming along the street, then called out something harsh-sounding in words Alistair didn't understand, and spat in Loghain's direction. Loghain looked his way, then lowered his head, saying and doing nothing in return. Alistair stared at Loghain, then at the man as they passed. An elf, he realized, an older man, his face seamed with the lines of years, head proudly erect and eyes narrowed as he watched Loghain's retreating back. He met Alistair's eyes briefly, then turned away and continued on his way up the street.

He reminded Alistair, oddly enough, of Zevran, though they looked nothing alike. It took him a while to recognize why; they were outside of the city and headed down the coast road before he finally pinned it down. The old man was one of the few elves he'd ever seen, apart from the Dalish, that acted as if he was any man's equal, rather than bowing and scraping or trying not to be noticed around humans. There'd been Zevran, that Shianni female and the _hahren_ in the alienage, and a handful of the Kirkwall elves, most noticeably the tall one with the tattoos and the great big sword.

Overall, the thought made Alistair smile a little; spitting at Loghain Mac Tir was certainly not a way for anyone, elf or otherwise, to remain unnoticed. Until he began to consider _why_ the man had most likely done so, which sobered him up quickly. Maker. _Slavery_. Ferelden, birthplace of Andraste, selling elves into the very slavery that she'd fought to end. To Tevinter, the remnants of the empire she'd fought; where she'd been betrayed and killed.

He hadn't wanted it to be true, even of Loghain Mac Tir. But he'd seen the caged elves, waiting to be shipped off to Tevinter; seen the bodies of those who'd been deemed not worth shipping out, and instead been slaughtered to fuel the magister's blood magic. Seen, too, the papers that Solona had recovered from the magister's body – what had his name been, anyway? Something starting with a C was all he could remember just now – which had been signed in a quite recognizable hand by Loghain Mac Tir himself, and sealed with his seal.

He found himself staring at Loghain, thinking. Thinking hard; he'd actually begun to respect the man, to think of him as a good commander, until that elf's actions had reminded him of just how low Loghain had sunk during the Blight Year; of just how far he'd been willing to go. It bothered him, that he'd so easily forgotten, even having spoken to Tisha just before they'd set out, heard her reasons for hating the man. And yet even she had spoken of sometimes seeing in him the man her grandfather had praised.

It would be simpler, he found himself thinking, if people were just one thing. Not some mix of good and bad bits, but entirely good or entirely bad. But they weren't, were they? Like Zevran, whom he'd been thinking of just moments before. He was an assassin; that was certainly bad. But he'd proven himself loyal to Solona, and helped fight the Blight, even been there when the Archdemon was killed, which was all good. Alistair himself... well, he _tried_ to be good, to do good, but he hadn't always exactly succeeded, had he?

The question was, he supposed, if a person's good actions could outweigh their bad. And were there actions so bad that they couldn't be forgiven, no matter how much else good that person did in their life? There must be, he decided, thinking of Rendon Howe and a massacre, and the things – and people – that they'd seen in a Denerim dungeon. Yes... there _must_ be things that no amount of earlier or later good works could win forgiveness for.

And yet... even if someone could commit acts that could never be forgiven, if they did honestly try to atone for them in some way, was not the effort itself worth some degree of recognition? Archon Hessarian had ordered Andraste burned alive, then repented during her execution and slew her to end her suffering, and later converted to her faith. He was, as a result, venerated as one of the founding forces behind the Andrastrian chantry, a flaming sword being one of the primary symbols of the faith. Which was more important then; his condemning her to a terrible death, or his mercy and the good works he had later done in her name? Or perhaps they were _both_ important.

Maybe it wasn't so much that people were good or bad, could do good or evil, but that all people were flawed, in greater and lesser ways, and could only muddle along, hopefully at least trying to do the best they were capable of, and endeavouring to make up for it when they'd done wrong. And maybe intent did matter, at least a little, because surely there was some difference in degree between someone who knowingly set out to cause harm, and someone who caused harm while trying to do good.

He still wasn't sure where Loghain fell on that spectrum. During the Blight Year he'd been sure the man was evil, all his actions and plans laced with malice. But now... nothing was certain. And failing the ability to see into another man's heart, to know his innermost thoughts, he could only guess.

They came to the vicinity of the cave, and Loghain stopped there for a while – briefly enough to not bother dismounting – to speak a few final words with Captain Dorn, Oghren, and Nathaniel at the gate of the small fortified encampment that the army had built there, on the bluff overlooking the beach where they'd bathed after the battle the week before.

"Look after yourselves out there," Oghren said them as they began to move away.

"I'm sure we'll all try our best," Lem responded, grinning.

"See you all back in the north," Nathaniel called after them as they moved away. Loghain raised a hand in acknowledgement and farewell, and then they were off, continuing down the coastal road.

The road, little more than a narrow trail, wound back and forth, mostly within sight of the ocean along the top of the bluffs, occasionally curving inland for a while to skirt a marshy area, once or twice dipping down to run along between the shore and the base of some particularly steep outcrop. Wilf and Lem knew this area well, and pointed out a few local landmarks and points of interest – an old smuggler's cave at the base of one bluff, a large swampy area reputed to be particularly bad for deaths and disappearances, a series of sandbars off the coast that had wrecked more than one incautious ship, some of the foundered wrecks dimly visible from the height they were on at the time.

The weather continued good, large clouds forming slowly somewhere offshore and sailing majestically inland overhead, breaking the light into shadows and sunbeams. A flock of birds exploded from a cliff-face as they rode nearby, filling the air with their raucous cries as the mass of white and grey birds wheeling out over the ocean in unison before splitting apart into smaller groups and ones and twos, and scattering. The white ones were adults, Lem explained, the greys their fledged nestlings. Not gulls, though similar in look and habits. They ate whatever they could find along the tide-line, he said, and snatched up any small fish incautious enough to swim too close to the surface.

"Are they good eating?" Alistair asked, watching a small group of them turn and wheel overhead.

"Only if you're desperate," Lem said. "Nasty strong taste to them."

"The eggs are good," Wilf volunteered.

"Yeah, if this nesting site was closer to town, there wouldn't be nearly so many greys visible," Lem agreed. "They lay three or four of them each year, and people are allowed to harvest the eggs as long as they leave at least one in the nest. I've done egging a time or two... nasty work if you don't have a head for heights. The taller and more vertical the cliff is, the happier the birds are to nest there."

"They're no fools," Loghain said, glancing upwards briefly. "They know the steepness keeps them safe from most predators."

It was, Alistair belatedly realized, the first comment Loghain had made since they'd left town that morning, apart from speaking to the men at the camp gate. He'd been silent and withdrawn ever since they'd encountered that elf. Nor did he speak again, as they continued on their way, not until he reined in and said that the place they'd reached – where a tiny spring-fed pond stood, its overflow wending off downhill toward the nearby ocean – was a suitable place to rest the horses while they ate their lunch.

He didn't speak while they ate, either, seeming lost in thought as he stoically munched his way through his share of the rations, seeming not even to taste the food. They topped up their waterskins from the spring before moving on. It was clear they were approaching the Southron Hills now, the land trending steadily upwards, the cliffs facing the ocean tending more and more to the precipitous, what streams they saw either flowing to the northeast, toward the lowland interior, or in a few rare cases tumbling in falls down to the ocean, marshy areas now almost non-existent, confined to narrow areas between the looming heights and the ocean itself. In late afternoon they found themselves skirting around the edges of a large bay, much of the shore below a salt marsh, teeming with wildlife visible even from the heights.

"The village is just the other side of this," Loghain said. "Just beyond that far headland. There's a smaller bay there, deeper then this; no marsh. We should reach there by dark."

And fell silent again, simply leading the way along the trail. It dipped down again at the deepest crest of the bay, cutting through the edges of the salt marsh, crossing over a number of streams, including one almost big enough to be called a river, on corduroy bridges support by stone-filled log cribs. Wildlife was prolific; they saw beavers and muskrats, a huge blue heron that watched them warily as they crossed a bridge just downstream of where it stood, fishing for its dinner. Other waterfowl too; ducks and geese of several varieties, small shore birds investigating the banks and sandbars and mud flats for food. There was the half-eaten corpse of some large animal washed up on one mudflat, too covered with crabs and birds and other scavengers for its type to be discernible.

Their path eventually led upwards again, and inland a bit, cutting across the western headland at a lower point to the next bay. The village was built on the downhill side of it, where the headland would protect them from the worst of the easterly-bound winds and weather. The style of the scattered handful of buildings was much like that of Redcliffe, on a smaller scale; small wooden or half-timbered houses, mostly just one story in height, raised on stone and wood piers sunk into the hillside to keep their floors well above the level of any flow of water down the hillside. Parts of the hillside were terraced, dotted with small gardens and chicken coops and enclosures for other animals. A pair of large dovecotes and several rabbit hutches made it clear what, other than fishing and hunting, provided the primary source of meat for the village.

Their approach was spotted even before they came to the uppermost houses, and by the time they reached what seemed to be the town square – a large terrace near the bottom of the slope – there was a group of people gathered to greet them. One, dressed no differently than the rest, stepped forward and gave a very shallow and awkward bow to Loghain. "My lord," he said uneasily, and looked over the other wardens before turning his attention back to Loghain.

"Ser Treff. I seek rooms for the night for myself and my wardens, or a place where we may camp for the night if accommodating us would be difficult," Loghain said.

Treff nodded. "Rooms can be found, though likely not all in one house," he said, and looked over the wardens again. "Likely I can take two of you in my own house, if you don't mind sharing a bed between the two of you."

"That's fine," Loghain said. "Alistair here is my squire, he can stay with me."

A woman edged out of the crowd, frowning at the group of them. "Wilf? Is that really you?"

Wilf's face lit up with a pleased smile. "Nella! Yes, it is me. I am a warden now," he said, sounding quite proud of the fact.

"I'll be pleased to offer hospitality to my cousin," Nella said, looking at Treff rather than Loghain. "Wilf can come stay the night with Tom and I."

That just left Lem, and an elderly man promptly spoke up, saying there was room in his house, if the warden didn't mind staying in a bachelor household, his wife having passed over the winter. Lem certainly had no objections. Figuring out where their horses and mules could be quartered for the night took longer, there being no pastures here, and several small enclosures having to be offered for the purpose before there was sufficient room found for all of them. A group of young boys offered to go cut grasses for the horses across the hill in the marsh, there being little in the way of feed available either, and Loghain promptly took them up on the offer, tossing them a coin and promising them another in the morning, much to their evident satisfaction. They promptly set out on the errand, wanting to get it completed before dusk. Crunch bounded off with them, seeming not in the least tired out from their full day of travel, much to the boys' delight.

The horses and mules having been taken care of, they scattered to the various households that they would be guesting with. Wilf and Lem were accompanied by most of the curious, doubtless since they were viewed as being more approachable than Loghain's party, Wilf in particular being viewed as one of their own by the townsfolk by virtue of his cousin's residence there.

The house Ser Treff led them to was one of the largest ones, at the southern end of the large terrace, and the only one in the village to have a second floor, albeit a small one. The ground floor was divided into two rooms, a large one that served as kitchen, dining and sitting area, and a smaller one for storage. The bedroom Treff showed them to was on the second floor, taking up almost the whole space apart from a narrow stairwell that ran from the ground floor up to the attic space above. It was also clear that it was usually the bedroom of Treff and his wife, but when Loghain didn't protest about how they were putting the pair out of their own room, Alistair didn't think it was his place to comment. And, in thinking about it, the few times he'd been part of Arl Eamon's train during trips to and from Denerim, any time they'd stayed at a private residence instead of an inn, the best bed in the house had always gone to the Arl, even if it meant everyone else in the house changing rooms to accommodate him.

Treff's wife Audienne – a tall, thin woman with white-streaked brown hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail – came into the room long enough to strip the bed, remaking it with fresh bedding from a cedar-lined chest at the foot of it before carrying the stripped-off bedding upstairs, presumably to use to make up a pallet for herself and Treff in the attic. They piled their packs in a corner of the room, then Loghain sent Alistair off to fetch water for the both of them so they could at least sponge-bathe and get the worst of the smell of horse off before changing into clean clothes.

They joined the couple for dinner a short while later, bowls of a thick fish stew simmering over the fire and chunks of fresh-baked bread. It was tasty and hot and filling, and Audienne seemed pleased by how heartily the two of them ate, though both were actually restraining their appetites a little, limiting themselves to only a small second helping each.

Loghain and Treff talked a little about the village over the course of the meal; mostly about how mild the previous winter had been, how good the fishing was this year, and some minor gossip from Treff about other villagers who were, it seemed, know to Loghain. Loghain briefly explained why he and his wardens were passing through, and where they were headed after this. They went outside and sat on the porch afterwards, looking out over the bay and talking quietly, while Alistair helped Audeinne with the dishes before going out to join them.

Treff gave Alistair only a single incurious look before turning back to his conversation with Loghain – something about a battle somewhere, reminiscences of a shared past Alistair guessed from what he was saying, and supposed Treff must have served under Loghain at some point in the past. Treff was doing most of the talking, Loghain having returned to the distracted silence he'd been in most of the day, beyond the odd encouraging sound or brief comment that showed that he was still listening. Eventually Treff excused himself and went back inside; Loghain remained outside, and Alistair with him. Silence fell, the two watching the last of the sunset, and the first stars coming out. The earlier clouds had all vanished; the sky was clear, the sea breeze stilled, the bay almost as smooth as glass as it reflected the darkening sky. Alistair found himself studying Loghain more than the beauty of the scene, however, wondering...

Loghain eventually turned his head, looking thoughtfully at Alistair. "Spit it out, whatever it is."

Alistair flushed, surprised and a little embarrassed. "All right. That elf this morning... who was he?"

Loghain's mouth thinned slightly. He looked down, then away, out across the water. "He was one of the Night Elves, once. My right-hand man in them, the leader when I was otherwise occupied. We saved each other's lives, more than once, during the course of the rebellion. There was a time when I'd have named him a good friend. I like to believe he'd have said the same."

"But not any more."

"No, not any more," Loghain agreed, and straightened up, no longer leaning on the railing but instead folding his hands together, gaze still fixed on the far distance.

"Because of the alienage."

"Yes."

" _Why_ ," Alistair asked. "How could you do that? To _Fereldans_ , to people who'd trusted you..."

Loghain sighed softly. "Many reasons. I could attempt justifying it with any of a half-dozen different arguments, but when it comes right down to it, I know..." He stopped, and swallowed. "I know it was the most unforgivable thing I have ever done."

A silence fell again, Alistair feeling surprised that Loghain hadn't even tried to justify or deny it. "Then _why_ ," he said softly after it became obvious that Loghain wasn't going to continue.

"Some times you will find you have no choices left but bad ones. Where the decision to be made is no longer which is the wrong or the right one, but only which one is... less wrong."

"And selling elves into slavery was _less_ wrong? Less wrong than _what!?_ "

Loghain turned and looked at him. "Than seeing all of Ferelden fall. Half the army died at Ostagar, and a good-sized fraction of what remained owed allegiance to lords who had decided to revolt against the Crown rather than helping to secure the border or fight the darkspawn. I was having to hire mercenaries to make up the difference, and what support I'd originally had was vanishing like the snows of spring. The bannorn was in revolt; tax revenues I'd counted on to pay the mercenaries – and the regular army as well – were being withheld. The bannorn is not just the food basket of Ferelden, it is also the main source of revenue for the kingdom. The banns and arls who were supporting Anora and myself had already paid their taxes, and a war tax on top of it, and any further demands for money would have merely driven the less committed of them over to the opposition's side, taking their men with them. I was down to less than two week's pay for the army and mercenaries when I was approached; much longer, and I'd have been out of money to pay the mercenaries, to pay and feed the soldiers. What military forces we had left would have fallen apart. There would have been further violence and uprisings, at a time when Ferelden could not withstand much more of such. Unpaid soldiers tend to express their happiness quite violently, you see. And the mercenaries, once gone, would not have returned, certainly not without considerably higher pay up front"

"So you sold them."

"Yes. Do not think it was an easy or a casually-taken decision. I've worked with elves; fought alongside them. There was a time I was welcome into their homes. My terynir contains most of the Dalish that chose to roam Ferelden; I have met some of them as well, even as leery as they understandably are of most _shem'len_. Unlike many of our noble lords and ladies, I have _never_ considered the elven population of Ferelden to be merely sub-human knife ears, fit only for servants and barely-trusted soldiers," he snapped angrily, then visibly pulled himself back together. "The alienage is normally a decent source for recruitment, even if not producing the best quality of soldier... but after the rioting and Vaughan Kendall's death – supposed death, rather – I was having to keep the alienage shut up tight and the elves guarded from those who'd otherwise have gone in and run riot, slaying them indiscriminately for their supposed crimes. I didn't want to do it."

"But you sold them anyway," Alistair said, unable to keep the disgust out of his voice.

"Yes, I sold them," Loghain said raggedly, and turned away again. "I told myself... I tried to tell myself... that it was the lesser evil. The ones taken away would at least survive, if, as seemed increasingly likely after the fall of Lothering, the darkspawn broke out of the south. It saved at least some of them from the inevitable slaughter, either by darkspawn or by a panicked and rioting population, to whom the first response in any disaster often seems to be to slay any mages or elves on hand as the obvious scapegoats. Their sacrifice... no, sacrificing _them_... seemed like it might be the one thing I could do that would make a difference, that might tip the scales and enable me to save my country. I knew it would cost me, but..." he broke off, shaking his head.

"There are some costs that are too high," Alistair said.

Loghain turned and looked intently at him. "Is there? Is there really? You forget I knew Duncan, thanks to his friendship with both Maric and Cailan. He said more than once that the primary rule of the Grey Wardens is to do _whatever must be done._ To slay the Archdemon; to end the Blight. By that thinking, there is no cost that is too high, so long as it _works_."

"Selling the alienage into slavery was not _necessary_ ," Alistair replied hotly.

Loghain promptly cut him off. "Not in hindsight, no. We were lucky; Solona managed to unite Ferelden behind her, kill the Archdemon, _end_ the damned Blight. I wish to the Maker that I _had_ made some other choice, but at the time it seemed to me to be the only one I could make. An unforgivable choice; not merely because the elves will never forgive me for it, but because _I_ can never forgive myself for it!" He turned away again. "I made that choice knowing that. Knowing that I will spend the rest of my life hating myself for having done it. But if it saved Ferelden..." He fell silent for a while, hands gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles were white. "So long as it saved Ferelden, I would do it again. For Grey Wardens, ending a Blight is the most important thing in the world. For me... saving Ferelden was. More important even than my own happiness or honour."

"Was," Alistair said, picking out the incongruous word.

"Yes, _was_. I am a Grey Warden now; the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. I still love Ferelden; I will never stop loving this country. But my duty and responsibility now is narrowed, changed. Solona and Riordan changed it when they chose to recruit me rather than kill me; Solona changed it further when she insisted on being the one to take the killing blow, leaving me to live on in her stead. The only border of Ferelden I am allowed to protect now – _required_ to protect – is the one drawn between us and wherever darkspawn linger. The only armies I command are a handful of variably-trained wardens. But by the Maker I _will not fail again_ , even if it costs my own life."

He fell silent again briefly, hands flexing slightly on the railing. When he spoke again, his voice was tense with emotion. "Solona asked me once what I wanted. My response does not really matter, except that two of the things I mentioned were that I wanted a clearly-drawn line I could defend, and an end to the war. In the end... she gave me both of those. In some ways my life has become considerably more simple, as a result. In others... vastly complicated."

He turned, and looked at Alistair. "Duncan and I never saw eye to eye. Not because we were so different, but because we were too much alike. I knew he was a man like me; a man who would sacrifice anything and anyone for his goal, including his own life and honour if it proved necessary. A man who could make the hard decisions, when he had to. _Whatever must be done_. In my case, to preserve Ferelden. In his, to prevent or end a Blight, to slay an archdemon if one should arise, as one did. _Even if the cost of it was Ferelden itself_. _That_ is why I never trusted him. Ironic, that now I am the one in the role that was his," Loghain said, lips twisting in a crooked smile. "If a second archdemon arose tomorrow... I do not know that I could go so far as to sacrifice Ferelden to end it, even if that seemed the only possible route. My love of and loyalty to this country is of too long standing to be overturned entirely merely because I am now a Grey Warden. But any lesser cost, that I will not stick at, no matter how repugnant it is to me personally."

He fell silent briefly. When he continued, his voice was very quiet, thoughtful. "Perhaps that makes me an evil man; there are certainly many willing to believe I am. But I have never done anything to seek power for myself, riches for myself, acclaim for myself. All I have ever done is love my King, and my country, and try to do my best for both. That my best was not always good enough..." He paused again, then shrugged. "All men fail, sooner or later. We can only try, and try, and try again."

He fell silent again, looking up after a while at the stars glittering overhead. "It's late. I'm for bed," he said tiredly, and moved towards the door.

"And Cailan?" Alistair asked, suddenly, even as Loghain reached the doorway. Loghain stopped, frozen, not looking back at him. "Did you love Cailan too? Or when you say you loved your King, do you only mean our father?"

" _Yes_ , I loved Cailan. He was the closest thing I ever had in this life to a son. It was not _I_ who put him in the vanguard at Ostagar; I wished him anywhere but there. I wished him kept safe. Turning away from that field, knowing it almost certainly meant his death, was the single hardest thing I have ever done in my life. And I have done many hard things," he said, voice rough, and then disappeared inside the house.

Alistair remained where he was for a while, looking out across the still waters of the bay. He found himself considering Loghain's assertion that he and Duncan had been very much alike. He didn't want to believe that was true, not when he'd so long admired Duncan, so hated Loghain... And yet. And yet he remembered a frightened man dying on the end of Duncan's dagger for having refused the Joining, though it was Jory who'd reached for his weapon first. And remembered, too, Duncan saying to Solona that they had to do whatever it took to destroy the darkspawn. Alistair had not thought the comment all that seriously mean; he'd made a joke about drawing the line at wearing a dress and dancing the Remigold, the memory of which made him feel a little embarrassed now. He'd taken so little seriously much of that day... right up until things became very serious indeed.

And yet Loghain was right; it _was_ a sentiment he'd heard Duncan express before, in different ways over the many months while he'd been the junior-most warden himself. The duty of Grey Wardens was to fight darkspawn, to kill archdemons, to _end_ Blights, by whatever means necessary. If the only way to end the Blight had required some huge sacrifice, equivalent to selling the alienage into slavery... would Duncan have done it? Would Solona? If the choice was forced on him... would _he?_

If he didn't, if he balked, if he decided that there was a cost too high – was that success? Or abject failure?

And realized, guiltily, that he had decided at one time that there _was_ a cost too high. The cost of allowing Loghain to become a Grey Warden and live rather than slaying him outright.

When he finally went indoors, Loghain was already in bed, lying on his side, eyes shut. Alistair stripped down to his leggings and carefully slipped into bed as well, stretching out with his back to Loghain and a space between them. He lay awake a very long time, thinking of the Blight Year, of their travels back and forth across across Ferelden, of the many people who'd died at their hands, some guilty of nothing worse than doing their job and being between Solona and a goal of hers. She'd never hesitated, he realized. Her decisions had upset or angered him at times, but she'd always gone ahead and done whatever she felt was necessary, to convince their so-called allies to live up to their end of the old treaties. But if things had fallen out differently, if there'd been no choice but to annul the Tower rather than saving the mages, if the only choice available after that had been to slay young Connor or sacrifice Isolde in a blood magic ritual, if their only choice in the Brecilian Forest had been to slay all the werewolves, or even the Dalish themselves... might not Solona have done that, too?

He didn't know. He couldn't know. He could only lie awake and wonder.

Judging by the silence from the other half of the bed, and Loghain's lack of reaction to his entering, he thought he was not the only one not sleeping peacefully that night. Cold comfort, that.


	35. Northward Bound

Alistair felt tired and bleary-eyed, climbing out of bed the next morning. And thick-headed, from the lack of sleep. Having to trot off downstairs to fetch shaving water for the both of them at least cleared some of the cobwebs out of his head. Audienne was already up, and had water warmed and tea brewing, handing him a couple of mugs full of it to take back upstairs along with the water. The tea took care of the worst of the remaining fuzziness, so that he was feeling almost normal again by the time he'd shaved and dressed.

Breakfast was more tea, salted porridge, and fried fish, the fish having been dipped in eggs and crumbs and seasonings and fried in butter until crisp on the outside and flaky inside, and every bit as tasty as the stew the night before had been. Audienne smiled when the two of them complimented her cooking. She handed them a small basket when they returned downstairs later – more of the fish, and a couple of small loaves of bread, still warm for the over, with a small ceramic jar tucked in with them. "Chokecherry preserves," she told them shyly, then hurried back to her kitchen.

The others, when they gathered together in the square, were similarly burdened down with packed lunches from their hosts. Loghain thanked everyone for their hospitality as they tacked up their horses and packed away their belongings, threw a few more coins to the youths who'd gathered grasses for their mounts and mules, then they mounted up and set off again, following the trail-like road a short distance along the coast to where it split, and there turning inland. The coastal part only went some small distance further, to a tiny hamlet even smaller than the village they'd just left, Loghain said, while the inland trail would lead them into a network of trails that would, eventually, take them through the hills and out into the wilds.

It was very clear that they were climbing up into the Southron Hills now, the trails tending more to long upward reaches and only a few short downwards ones. Whenever the trails branched, Loghain and Lem would briefly consult about what directions were available, before choosing which path to take, in this manner trending gradually to the northwest, and a little more west than north. By mid-day, when they stopped in a large wild meadow partway up a steep hillside, the ocean was only just barely visible beyond the lower hills and treetops to the south of them, the village long since out of sight, though Lem pointed out a barely visible spit of land off to the southeast and said that it was the opposite headland of the bay from the village.

They shared the contents of their lunch baskets; the fried fish, bread – now cooled down – spread with the bright red preserves, a different dark and nutty loaf made with spouted grains, split and thickly spread with creamy white cheese – sheep's milk, Loghain said, from the hamlet further along the coast, which lay on the edge of a small grasslands area where such could be raised. There was also strips of smoked fish, and wedges of a shallow pie made of eggs and vegetables – doubtless sea bird eggs, Lem explained, not the kind they'd seen the day before, but a different type, black-feathered fish-eating birds with a later nesting season. That and a jug of minted water that Wilf had been given made a substantial and tasty midday meal for them, eaten leisurely while the horses and mules grazed.

"This would be a nice place to set up camp for the night," Lem pointed out, laying down on his back and chewing on a stem of grass.

"Perhaps, but we won't be stopping here," Loghain responded, sounding more amused than anything else. "We may not be in any particular rush to get somewhere at the moment, but I don't like the idea of being out of reach for too long, and we've days of travel yet to get to Ostagar, and then some unknown period of time there before we continue north to Lothering. Though we can take at least a short break before we move on," he said, and then rose to his feet, shading his eyes with one hand and looking around. "I wish I'd brought my bow; this looks like a likely place for small game."

"There's a trading outpost somewhere to the northeast from here, near where that river cuts through the hills" Lem said. "Wouldn't be too far out of our way to stop there; they'd carry things like bows."

Loghain hesitated, chewing on his lower lip and looking torn, then shook his head. "Better not. I'd rather get over to the western side of these hills as soon as we can; they get a lot rougher north of here, and around that river is supposed to be a particularly nasty crossing; too many steep gorges and damned few points where they can be crossed. I don't actually need a bow; I just wish I'd thought to bring one. Alistair, clean this up. Wilf, come with me."

Wilf obediently rose and followed Loghain some distance away from where they'd eaten. Alistair gathered up the baskets, jug and napkins from their meal, shaking out the crumbs and folding them neatly before finding room to store the baskets and the napkins away in one of the packs. The jug he took with him as he set off downhill, to where they'd crossed a stream shortly before entering the meadow. It wouldn't hurt to have some extra water, and the mint leaves still remaining in the jug would give it a pleasant flavour. Much nicer than the tanned leather flavour of the water in their waterbags.

When he returned it was clear that Loghain was giving Wilf a lesson, both of them having stripped down to just their leggings and boots and circling each other warily, Wilf with his hammer, and Loghain armed with his shield, and a stick instead of his sword. Alistair paused and watched them briefly, noticing again how skilled Loghain was in combat, several times evading or deflecting Wilf's hammer while scoring two distinct touches on him. Lem was sitting up and watching attentively, grass stem hanging forgotten out one side of his mouth, Crunch sprawled on his back beside him, Lem idly scratching the mabari's belly with one hand while he watched the pair.

"He's blighted _good_ ," Lem said approvingly as Alistair walked over to join him, sitting down on the other side of Crunch.

"The scary thing is he's just as good with pretty much any weapon you can imagine," Alistair said. "At least I've yet to see him sparring where he didn't know how to use any particular weapon, and use it well."

"Impressive," Lem said.

"Frightening. Don't forget he expects us to learn as many weapons as we can too."

"There is that," Lem agreed, looking thoughtful. "Don't think I'd ever want to end up on the other side of him in a serious fight."

"I almost did once," Alistair said, and fell silent, remembering that day, reaching out to ruffle Crunch's ears as the dog rolled back over onto his belly.

"When was this?" Lem asked after a while, when it became obvious Alistair wasn't planning to say anything further.

"The Landsmeet where his regency was overthrown. Solona had thought of having me fight him, but..."

"But?"

"But she wanted me to promise to spare him, if it was possible; she'd promised Anora she'd try to, you see. And I... I just couldn't her that, so she had Zevran fight him instead."

"Zevran – that was the elf, right? Or the bard?"

"The elf. Elf assassin; an Antivan Crow."

"Hah! A Crow? Must have been quite the fight," said Lem, sounding impressed.

"It was," Alistair agreed, softly, unable to keep the regret out of his voice. Remembering that spectacular fight, and how it had ended; how he'd stormed out of the Landsmeet chamber not long afterwards, so angry that it hadn't been until his ship was hours out of dock that evening before he finally began to calm down again. And began to regret... but it had been too late to turn back by then.

Far too late, by the time they reached port.

He'd missed part of what Lem was saying, he realized, and returned his attention to the here and now. Something about Loghain's shield technique, he thought, but thankfully Lem didn't seem to be expecting any answer, just rambling to himself as he watched the sparring. The sparring soon ended, Loghain smiling and clapping one hand companionably to Wilf's shoulder, saying a few words of approval. Wilf's face lit up with a happy smile, and he nodded, then set his hammer down and began pulling his shirt back on.

"About time to move on, I think," Loghain called, moving toward his own pile of discarded clothing. Lem and Alistair quickly rose, gathering in their mounts and mules, tightening loosened girths and making sure everything was properly secured.

The trail dipped down between the hills after they'd crossed over the crest of the hill they'd been on, dropping into a shadowed valley alive with bird-song and criss-crossed by streams. It would have been a pleasant place, if the coolness and moisture hadn't given shelter to ravenous swarms of biting insects. Loghain and Lem both had containers of fly-bane, and shared the citrus-scented oil with the others. It was still a miserable few hours until the trail split again, and they were able to follow a rising path up toward the crest of the next ridge-line to the west. The trees and flies both gave out some distance before the grassy crest, a natural meadow that ran for several miles along the ridge.

"Antelope," Loghain said softly, reining in his horse and gesturing to the north. "Lem?"

"On it," Lem said, quickly dismounting and tossing the reins of his horse to Alistair, pausing only long enough to remove his bow from the gear packed onto its back before moving off. Crunch immediately set off after him, ears raised in interest at the sight of the small herd of animals.

Loghain looked up at the sky. "Late enough to set up camp, I suppose," he said grudgingly. "Better up here where we can see what's around us than somewhere like that last valley."

He led the way to one of several stoney outcrops that dotted the long meadow, and the three of them were soon setting up camp adjacent to it, Alistair seeing to unladening and staking out all the horses and mules, while Wilf cleared an area for a firepit, and gathered some rocks to make a ring around it. Loghain strode off in search of firewood, back toward the mouth of the trail, their hatchet in hand.

By the time Lem returned, carrying a pair of gutted antelopes – the horned animals were quite small, not even as big as Crunch, who judging by the state of his muzzle had already been well-fed on all the organs – they had a fire started, and a kettle of water standing ready to heat for their evening tea. Loghain had found some wild herbs while gathering firewood, and he and Lem soon had the two antelope roasting, and were discussing whether to have the herbs as a salad, or braised.

"All right if I go for a walk?" Alistair asked; after riding for most of the day, he didn't feel like just sitting here, and what little he could see of the view around them was spectacular.

"Of course," Loghain said. "Don't go too far, and take your sword with you."

Alistair nodded, and after only a moment's hesitation picked west as a good direction and set off that way. It gave him a good view of the slowly setting sun, and once he'd reached the right point, an amazing view. There was two other ridge-lines visible to the west, and beyond them, just barely visible in the far distance, a hazy, flatter area glinting with specks and threads of reflected sunlight that he knew had to be the southeastern reaches of the Korcari Wilds, the light reflecting off the wetland ponds and streams that made up most of it. He found himself wondering how far south they were from where Flemeth's hut was; it was at least a couple of days ride further north, he thought, based on admittedly hazy memories of the maps he'd seen. Not to mention some distance west, as well. Call it... four, maybe five days? He wasn't quite sure.

He glanced back over his shoulder toward the camp, where Loghain was laughing at something Lem had apparently said, Lem grinning as he responded, their words too faint to make out from here, just the distant tones of their voices rising and falling. Wilf was stretched out with his head resting on his bedroll – napping, Alistair guess – and Crunch was wading through the long grasses toward him.

He couldn't help smiling at the dog. "Hiya, Crunch... come to enjoy the sunset with me?" he asked, unable to keep his fondness for the dog out of his voice. Not that he was trying to at all. Crunch made a whuffing sound, then butted his head against the side of Alistair's knee.

"Ow! I get the picture, you only like me for my ability to scratch your ears properly," he said, and sank down to sit on the ground. Crunch promptly stretched out with his head resting on Alistair's thigh. Alistair sighed, a contented sound, as he sat there rubbing around the base of the mabari's ears, silently watching the sun inching down toward the far horizon, lost in memories of his time in the wilds.

* * *

Loghain glanced up from stirring the pan full of herbs as Alistair walked back into the circle of firelight cast by their fire. The sky behind him was still showing the last of the sunset, streaks of red and purple-pink down near the horizon, the sky shading from a dark blue in the west through purple overhead to star-speckled black in the direction they'd come. He found himself smiling briefly at the expression on Alistair's face, a relaxed, happy expression, before turning his attention back to the pan. "You're just in time, we're just about to eat."

"Trust a Grey Warden never to miss a meal if he can help it," Alistair said, and watched curiously as Lem finishing up scraping and salting the second of the antelope hides.

"Help me wash, will you?" he asked Alistair after setting the rolled hide aside, and the two went a little away from the fire so Alistair could trickle water over Lem's hands without making a mud puddle near where they'd be sleeping later. That taken care of, the pair of them went digging in their gear for tin plates and mugs, and some bread leftover from their lunch earlier in the day. It was a good meal, if simple; the antelope a little tough, but tasty all the same, the preserve-spread bread, and the braised herbs, accompanied by honey-sweetened tea.

"We'll be keeping proper watches tonight, and every night from here on out," Loghain told them as he wiped his plate clean with the last bit of bread. "Good practice. Two and two; Lem, you and I will take the first watch. Alistair and Wilf will take the second. We'll switch around on subsequent nights."

Lem nodded amiably, remaining squatted down near the fire where he was, empty plate beside him and folded arms resting on his knees.

"Yes, ser," was Alistair's response, with Wilf following his example a moment later. They cleaned up from their meal, checked on their livestock, then Alistair and Wilf spread out their bedrolls and lay down to sleep.

Loghain and Lem settled in on watch, Lem moving out away from the fire and keeping his back to it to allow his eyes to adapt to the dark. Loghain was pleased by that; the hunter was an intelligent man, and clearly well-skilled at his trade as well. He'd have to find out if Lem knew how to write reports and make maps, and if not see that he was trained in both, even if it meant turning him over to Varel and Woolsey's less-than-tender tutelage once they finally returned to the north; it was always useful to have a few well-trained scouts available.

He wrote in his journal for a while, making notes about their trip so far, occasionally rising and walking a circle around the outskirts of the area they occupied. The horses and mules were all quiet, which was a good sign. He caught a sight of unexpected movement only once, and quickly recognized it as Crunch, wandering around exploring. He considered whistling in the dog, than decided against it; Crunch made an excellent outlying guard, and would doubtless give warning if he noticed any predators of the two- or four-legged kind anywhere in the vicinity.

A little after midnight the dog returned to the fireside on his own, a large snake dangling from either side of his mouth like a particularly villainous moustache. Not a venomous one, thankfully, those being almost non-existent in the south anyway, just a particularly large specimen of garter snake, a danger to mice and frogs perhaps but not humans.

"I hope you're not planning on eating that," he said softly to the dog. "Lots of small bones. Not very good for you, you know."

Crunch snorted, and gave a little shake of his head, the head and tail of the snake whipping around.

"If you're going to play with it, do it somewhere else," Loghain reprimanded him sternly. "You'll have snake guts all over the place in a minute if you're not careful.

Crunch snorted again, then walked away around the rock pile, returning a minute or two later without the snake. And walked directly over to Alistair, nosing his cheek and then licking at his face, occasioning a very hurried waking.

"Hey! Stop that!" Alistair exclaimed, fending off the dog as he sat up. "You have antelope gut breath, you know."

Crunch merely sat down and panted, with a very doggish grin on his face. Loghain snorted, amused. "Time for you to be getting up anyway. And wake Wilf; it's your turn at watch."

Alistair nodded, rising to his feet and stepping over to lean down and shake Wilf's shoulder, the other man waking as quickly as Alistair had.

Loghain, meanwhile, called Lem back in, then moved over to stretch out for sleep on his own bedroll. He glanced at Alistair, who was crouched down stirring up the coals of the fire, and had to bite back a laugh. "You might want to clean your face," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Crunch has left snake blood all over your cheek."

" _Snake_ blood...! Gah!" Alistair exclaimed, looking horrified, and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve.

Loghain did laugh then, before settling back with his eyes closed, and a faint smile on his face.


	36. Delays and Detours

"I don't like the look of that," Loghain said, looking off to the east as they approached the crest of the next ridge late the next afternoon. The others reined in their horses and turned to look back the way they'd come as well.

Lem let out a piercing whistle at the sight of the bank of dark clouds scudding westwards towards them. "Nor I," he agreed. "We'd better be under cover before that reaches us."

"And not up here on the ridge-line, either," Loghain agreed. "Come on, best we move smartly," he said, and turning back westwards, touched his heels to the stallion's flanks, picking up the pace as he led them uphill.

This ridge was not topped by grasslands, as the previous one had been, but was instead cloaked in trees, a mix of types but mostly tall evergreens, the trail they followed through it thickly carpeted with fallen pine needles. It was hard to tell when they'd reached the crest of the ridge, but easy to tell once they'd passed it, as they went through a series of small up and down slopes before they struck another long downhill stretch of trail. The trail went across the slope as much as down it, winding back and forth a little to skirt around a few particularly steep or uneven areas.

The light was beginning to fade and mutters of thunder rumble audibly in the distance as clouds crept in overhead before Loghain finally stopped. "Here, I think," he said, scanning the forest to one side of the trail. "It's as good a place as I've seen yet, and while there might be better further on, I'd prefer we're under canvas before the rain starts."

Lem grunted agreement, already dismounting from his horse. For his part, Alistair couldn't see why Loghain had chosen this seemingly random patch of hillside over any other. "Why here?" he asked.

Loghain grinned. "Lem?" he said.

Lem grinned as well. "Look at the shape of the slope here. This bit beside the trail rises up a little, then there's a little drop before it rises again up toward the ridge line. So what do you think will happen to any water that comes flowing down the hill toward it?"

" _Oh_ ," Alistair said, and smiled. "I see. It'll flow around this little rise, like it's an island."

"Exactly," Loghain agreed, and gestured. "If you look, you can even see the marks of erosion and water flow from previous rain falls. If we pitch our tent here, the only water we're likely to have to worry about is whatever comes down from directly over us, not all the rainfall from up-slope of here."

They soon had the horses and mules unloaded, the packs all hanging from a stout branch with the canvas pack covers draped over them to protect them from the rain, the animals themselves all hitched in a line along the trail's edge, and fed from their meagre stock of grain since there wasn't any browse for them.

There wasn't really enough room in between the tree trunks to pitch their tent, so instead they tied it between four of them to make a slanted roof, the low end at the uphill side, the direction the rain would be coming from. Wilf cleared ground down to bare earth at the downhill side for a fire pit, and they hurriedly gathered fallen deadwood from the area. The first few drops of rain were already beginning to fall as Loghain got the fire going.

It was an uncomfortable camp that night, and damp, all four men and the mabari squeezed in together in the small space under their tent canvas. None of them except Crush slept well; even once the worst of the thunder and lightning had passed into the distance, the rain itself continued as a torrential downfall, only finally slowing a few hours before dawn. And even with the rainfall, Loghain insisted on them keeping proper watches, so they were either awake and trying not to doze off, or trying to sleep and being kept awake by the rain and noise and the constant shifting around of everyone else.

Breakfast the next morning was a cold meal, the fire having gone out overnight and there being no dry wood with which to easily relight it. It was still raining, a cold drizzle now, but Loghain decided it was best they continue onwards; they'd likely be even colder sitting in camp, he said, and almost as damp.

The horses and mules were glad of their morning ration of grain, but clearly unhappy about being tacked up again; ears were back, tails clamped, the stallion tried to take a bite out of Loghain, and Lem narrowly dodged being kicked by one of the mules. All of them were in a foul mood by the time they finally mounted up and moved on, their rain capes keeping the worst of the wetness off but the wind and rain still making for a chilly, damp ride.

The rain continued all day, sometimes easing off to a mere misting, occasionally building to a more definite rainfall, but never dissipating entirely. Lunch was another cold meal, eaten while they took advantage of a small mountain meadow to allow their mounts to rest and graze for a while. They walked for a while after that, leading their mounts, all of them tired and miserable and knowing that that night's camp was likely to be just as uncomfortable.

* * *

Loghain cursed tiredly, looking at where a bridge should have crossed the narrow, fast-flowing river that rushed downhill toward the lake-filled valley between the two ridges – a lake they'd skirted the southern shore of earlier that day – but it had clearly been washed away at some time, only the rock-filled wooden cribs at either bank remaining. "We'll have to back-track," he said grimly, thinking of how the last branching they'd passed was over an hour's travel behind them.

Lem and Alistair grunted, Wilf remaining silent. They turned their horses, riding back the way they'd come, Loghain having to remain at the back until they reached a stretch where the trail widened enough for him to move forward and resume the lead position.

All of them were in a sour mood from the continuing rain, which had been falling for two days now. They had to constantly dismount and walk on any steeper sections of trail, the water and mud being too slick a surface to safely ride up, and even in the flatter sections of trail they often needed to lead the horses rather than riding them. Cold meals, wet weather, sore feet... and now a detour.

He was unhappy as he led the way down the other trail. They'd had plenty of choices in trails and directions when they'd been closer to the inhabited areas of Gwaren, but now that they were approaching the Wilds, such trails were few, and branchings far between. The route they'd been on until it dead-ended at the washed out bridge had been going more-or-less to the northwest, the direction they needed to go. This alternate route went southwest instead, away from their destination.

The trail crossed several wide streams, all flowing heavily from the recent rain, though thankfully adequately bridged so that they were in no danger crossing them. It was darkening toward evening when they reached a much wider torrent, a sheer waterfall plunging down into a narrow canyon, the trail crossing the canyon on a narrow bridge of rope and boards. Loghain and Lem both cursed softly at the sight of it. No problem for a man on foot, but coaxing horses and mules across was not going to be easy. But as the other alternative was to backtrack even further, to the eastern side of the lake, they were going to have to make the attempt.

They dismounted, and at Loghain's orders grained the horses again and ate a little food themselves. Lem crossed the bridge, checking how sound the planking was. "It should hold," he reported when he returned. "Though I'd certainly recommend taking only one animal across at a time."

"Best we carry all our gear across separately, too," Loghain said. "While we take care of that, you go see if you can find a decent camp site on the other side; it will be getting dark before we're done here."

Lem nodded, and headed back across, disappearing out of sight along the trail on the opposite side, Crunch following after him. The rest of them set to removing everything from their horses, Alistair and Wilf taking it in turns to carry loads across the bridge and stack their belongings safely off to one side.

"We'll try the mules first," Loghain decided when that was done. "And Wilf's mare last, as she's heaviest."

Alistair took the first mule across. It planted its feet briefly at the start of the bridge, pausing to look suspiciously at it, but when Alistair chirruped softly it consented to continue forward, crossing without further protest. The second mule went across without any problems at all. They took Lem's horse across next, who clearly disliked the swaying motion of the bridge and stopped briefly twice, freezing in place until the bridge stilled again.

Alistair's gelding proved to be the horse that gave them the most difficulty. It got as far as stepping onto the bridge, then planted it's feet, trembling, before it backed suddenly away, after which it set itself and refused to be brought close to the bridge again.

Lem returned while they were still trying to get the gelding to move. "There's a decent meadow to camp at about another mile further on," he reported, then frowned at Alistar and Wilf's attempts to get the gelding in motion. "Better to leave him be for now, or the other horses will be getting scared of crossing because _he's_ scared. Put him aside and bring him over last; he'll be happier about crossing when all his herd-mates are on the far side."

Loghain had to admit that was good advice, so Brunnera was led back and the stallion brought forward. Like the first mule, he took his time and looked at the bridge before consenting to be led onto it, but once he was in motion he went placidly enough, though his head was down, ears back, and tail clamped the entire way across. Wilf's mare crossed easily, though the amount of creaking the bridge gave off at her greater weight was unsettling, as was the distinct sound of one board cracking, through thankfully not breaking, under her weight.

After that all of them except Lem and the gelding crossed over. Lem spent some time in soothing the unsettled gelding, then led him over to the bridge. Again the gelding refused to step onto it, backing away, eyes showing white.

"Grain the other horses," Lem called across as he calmed the gelding again. "That might bring him over."

"Do it," Loghain told Alistair, who quickly retrieved one of the bags of grain from among their supplies and poured a line of it on the ground to one side. The horses and mules quickly crowded over to it, lowering their heads to lip at it, shoving noisily against each other.

The gelding whinnied, and danced in place briefly, then moved forward and back again. "He's going!" Lem shouted, and moved to one side, then smacked him loudly on the flank. The gelding reared up a little, then bounded forward, hooves clattering noisily on the planks as he plunged across the bridge, only coming to a stop once he was on solid ground again, lathered and excited but safely across. Lem grinned widely as he walked over himself.

"Good job," Loghain said.

"Yeah, well, not the safest way to get him to move along, I've seen a mule go right off a bridge once doing it that way, but mostly once they'd got their eyes on herd-mates and food they'll go the right direction," Lem said, still looking pleased with himself.

It took a while to get all the animals calmed down and tacked up properly again, and all their belongings reloaded; it was already dark by the time they set out for the meadow, opting to lead the animals again rather than riding them.

He couldn't see much of what the meadow was like when they reached it, other than getting an impression that it was reasonably large and filled with long grasses. It being too dark to cast around and find any better spot, they chose to set up camp right where the trail entered it, once again hanging tack and packs from tree branches to keep them up out of the damp, and tying their sodden tent canvas between trees to provide a roof. A cold camp again, all of them feeling wet and miserable, and more than one of them sniffling with incipient colds.

* * *

Sun shining in his eyes woke Alistair. The rain had finally stopped some time over night, and the sun was rising over the eastern ridges. He yawned and sat up, groaning as chilled, stiff muscles protested.

Loghain and Lem were in the process of laying a fire, he saw. Loghain looked up at the sound od him rousing, and smiled thinly. "Good, you're up... you can see to making breakfast for everyone. Wake Lem and I once food is ready," he ordered.

Alistair nodded. It was only fair, as the two of them had taken the second watch that night, though as none of them had slept well the last several nights they were all almost equally exhausted. He nudged Wilf awake, and sent him off in search of fresh water for brewing tea, while he gathered more wood and then dug through their packs in search of supplies.

It was good to have a hot breakfast again, even if it was just tea, pan bread, bacon and melted cheese.

"I think we'd best plan to spend at least half the day here, possibly all of it," Loghain said as they ate. "All our gear is damp, and we need to dry our clothing and tent, and care for our weapons and armour and tack, or we'll be having problems with rust and mildew. This meadow is large enough to allow our horses and mules to graze properly while we put ourselves back to rights. And a rest will give the trails time to dry out a little before we're moving on again."

"Sounds good to me," Lem agreed, while Wilf, who was definitely developing a cold, just nodded and sniffled juicily.

They set to work as soon as the meal was done, and soon had a couple of ropes tied up as clotheslines to hang all their dampened gear over to dry in the sun, after which everyone scattered around finding dry seats – rocks and logs, the ground being thoroughly soaked – to sit on while tending to their arms and armour.

Loghain took the time to sort through their provisions, and when he discovered some of the beans and flour had gotten damp, declared that they would indeed be spending the full day there, and put the beans to soak to make their supper out of later. The damp flour he mixed up into biscuit dough to cook for their lunch, frying them in the fat leftover from the morning's bacon, then splitting them open and filling them with cheese and the last of the sour cherry preserves.

Lem went off with his bow after lunch, to see if he could bag any fresh meat, Crunch joining him again. Alistair and Wilf saw to all the horses and mules, grooming them and checking their hooves, while Loghain set the beans to cooking, not bothering to add any meat to the pot since it was reasonably certain that Lem would return with fresh game. As he did, showing up in mid-afternoon with a cleaned goose and a brace of mountain gophers. Alistair cobbled together a spit, and Loghain set Wilf to tending the bird, while Lem cleaned and skinned the gophers.

"Come on," he told Alistair. "Get your sword and shield, time for a little practise. The workout will do you good."

Alistair groaned, but didn't protest. They practised for a while, though not as energetically as they might have, the day having turned both hot and humid.

"Can I have a go?" Lem asked eventually, from where he was sprawled nearby watching them, his earlier task done.

Loghain nodded. "Certainly. Against Alistair or myself?"

"I get the feeling you'd be the bigger challenge," Lem said.

Loghain grinned. "Possibly. Would you prefer me with sword and shield, or dual weapons?"

"Maker... dual weapons, I suppose, I'm more used to bar fights than going up against trained knights."

Loghain nodded, and set aside his shield, drawing a long knife for his offhand instead.

Alistair watched with interest as the two sparred. He'd seen Loghain fight with two weapons before, enough to know that the man was good at it. Their match proved interesting, Loghain being slowed a little by his heavier armour, but having a longer reach of arm as well as a longer weapon in his main hand. He also clearly knew tricks that Lem didn't, the smaller man having to fight hard to keep up his side of things. Lem was clearly enjoying it though, a pleased smile on his face as their sparred.

"I definitely wouldn't want to have to go up against you for real," he said after Loghain finally called a halt.

"You do reasonably well with knives when they're not even your primary weapon," Loghain assured him. "You just need more practise with them."

Wilf wanted to spar by then too, so Loghain oversaw a short match between him and Alistair while Lem took over tending to the roasting goose. His hammer turned out to be a difficult weapon for Alistair to face; the most he could do was try and deflect blows with his shield, and even that he couldn't keep up for long, the impacts were so bone-bruisingly hard. He was relieved when Loghain called a halt to the match.

It was good to have another warm meal that evening, all of them making appreciative sounds over the roasted goose and beans, accompanied by hot sweet tea. It was even better to retire early to a warm, dry bedroll, and know that this night, at least, even with watches still being kept, they'd all get enough sleep, and another hot meal come morning, the plump gopher carcasses having been buried in a covered pot in the coals to braise overnight.


End file.
